


Define Vulnerabilty

by TheGracefulBlueCat



Series: Lessons in Friendship [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Asperger's Sherlock, Blood and Gore, Canon Compliant, Caring Mycroft, Case Fic, Crying Sherlock, Doctor John, Drugged Lestrade, Drugged Sherlock, Fainting, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Helpless Sherlock, Hurt, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, John Feels, John is a Good Friend, John is a Very Good Doctor, Lestrade Whump, Medical Procedures, Nightmares, PTSD Sherlock, Panic Attacks, Past Torture, Protective John, Recovery, Repressed Memories, Scars, Sedation, Sherlock Feels, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Holmes on a Case, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Sherlock Makes Deductions, Sherlock Needs A Case, Sherlock is a Mess, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Sherlock's Violin, Slow Build, Triggers, Vulnerable Sherlock, discussion of suicide, painful memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-26 13:46:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 95
Words: 240,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5007016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGracefulBlueCat/pseuds/TheGracefulBlueCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shortly after Sherlock's return John realises something is very wrong with his friend. He, Greg and Mycroft try to help Sherlock as he falls deeper and deeper into the abyss called PTSD. But Sherlock is not ready to allow anyone in, but then the events of the current case cause him to hit bottom hard.</p><p>This story starts quite slow, but it will gather momentum and later turn into a large pile of hurt, angst, and comfort chasing each other. Weekly updates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tuesday

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made.  
> I am really glad Mr. Moffat and Mr. Gatiss created and own them, and that they made this terrific show. Thank you so much! 
> 
> Takes place directly after TEH. 3x01  
> Serious SPOILERS AHEAD!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introduction to the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was beta-ed by ImaginaryNumber.
> 
> This story will start quite slow, but it will gather momentum at some point and later turn into a large pile of hurt, angst, and comfort chasing each other, and there will be a complicated case, too, so stay with me.  
> This work was originally posted on FanFiction, the first chapter on May 19, 2014 and the last one in mid-April of 2016, it was a long and difficult journey to write it.  
> Before posting it here, I overhauled it and now I am posting the new version on FF, too.

 

"Bloody hell," John muttered, staring at the sheet of paper in his hands.

"What is it?" Lestrade and Sherlock also stared at the papers that were spread over Lestrade's desk.

"Uh!" Sherlock exhaled, exited.

"What do you see?" Lestrade demanded.

"That's a nasty cocktail…" John started to explain, "This is a drug that is used in ICU for paralysing patients. It needs to be used in combination with sedatives, or the patient experiences a waking nightmare..."

"You are saying the bloke is paralysing and sedating his victims and then killing them?"

"Eh, not really… and that's what's so nasty about it… I can't see anything in here that might work as a sedative," John stated in horror, scanning the sheets for more information.

"This one might even help to ensure the autonomous nervous system works fine," Sherlock added, pointing at a chemical formula that meant nothing to Lestrade.

Sherlock's voice did not carry any hint of emotion.

"Oh God. You are saying they were paralysed but fully awake?"

"Yes," Sherlock stated somewhat impatiently.

"Why?"

"It would take over three hours to go over all the possible answers to that question, so grant me one or two days and I'll have reduced the possibilities to a number that can be explained in...maybe thirty minutes."

John rolled his eyes.

"The thing is, Sherlock, the last two victims were killed at intervals of nine days... The next nine days are over in... five days..."

"How long between their disappearances and their murders?"

"Seven to eight days, depending."

"On what?"

"We don't know yet."

"Why didn't you call sooner?"

"Don't start that discussion again. The first victim... it looked like suicide. I only got into this case last night when the second victim was found in London."

"Where was the first?"

"Plymouth… So in fact you were brought in really fast. Those results came in an hour ago. I called you immediately."

"There are indications here that they are paralysed for at least the last two days of their ordeal," John said, looking up from the report.."Were there IV marks?… How was it administered?" Sherlock wanted to know.

"We don't know. The body is at Barts with Mrs Hooper."

Sherlock turned to the door.

"Where are you going?"

"Barts, of course."

"Wait, wait. Let's take the files with us, the ride will take some time during rush hour."

"I'd prefer a cab."

"No," came back from both John and Lestrade. Now Sherlock was the one rolling his eyes.

"You two can take the police car, then. Meet you there." He was out of the door.

"What just happened?" Lestrade asked.

"I'm not really sure... I… He seemed distracted but wouldn't tell me if he was working on another case," John worried aloud.

"He never liked police cars. But this if different… He's… he seems distressed, but that is so unlike Sherlock."

"Or depressed, but that's not like him, either. Something is definitely the matter, I plan to stay over there for a few days to find out what it is."

"You're staying at 221b?"

"Not yet. Going over Thursday night."

"You know chances are high he'll figure out you are there to… watch him?"

"He likely already has, that's probably why he's so distant."

"Maybe. Let's go and pick this up in the car."

 

**St Bartholomew's Morgue**

When John and Lestrade arrived, Sherlock was already immersed in a discussion with Molly while inspecting the body with some pincers and a magnifier.

"I found IV marks on the left leg," Sherlock muttered.

"Hi, nice to see you…" Molly looked up to greet John and Lestrade, "That's maybe why they were overlooked on the first victim… or the perpetrator used a different technique then, the body of the first victim is on its way over here. I will do the autopsy first thing tomorrow morning."

"Thank you Molly. You are of great help, as usual."

"Oh, you're welcome," she smiled up at him.

John and Lestrade raised their eyebrows and looked at each other, even more puzzled now.

"I'll call you later, Molly. Let's get something to eat?"

Sherlock headed for the door.

John and Lestrade followed, wondering who Sherlock was addressing.

"Thank you Miss Hooper," Lestrade smiled at her.

"Are you coming with us, Greg?" Sherlock's voice sounded like he was talking on autopilot.

John frowned.

What was going on? Had Sherlock just called Lestrade by his first name, accidentally?

Lestrade was too perplexed to say anything, and just followedthem to the main entrance. John slowed down and Sherlock finally stopped at the sidewalk lifting his hand to call a taxi.

Lestrade caught up with John.

"He just thanked her and he wants to eat lunch… and he called me by my first name!"

Lestrade and John were several steps behind Sherlock.

"You really need to keep an eye on him."

"Do you think we missed more than one danger night?" John asked in a hushed voice.

"God, you think he...?"

"No!... No, I just don't know what to think. Any one of a hundred possibilities. You knew him back then, when he was… self-medicating."

"Yes, but back then he was not like he is now... Well, maybe the depressed part… but otherwise… no… He was rude and hot-headed, like a spoiled child, doing only what suited him, no matter how inappropriate. Sherlock-when-you-first-met-him multiplied by 10."

"Did he tell you what he was up to during the past 24 months?"

"Not really… He's kind of closed up about it. When he first tried to explain I gave him a bloody nose. Maybe he fears he'll get another one. You?"

"Not really… Though I called him a bastard and hugged him."

"He let you do that, or did he throw a fit?"

"He allowed it."

John raised his eyebrows.

"Well, glad you did…. But all in all… this is not good."

Lestrade made an affirming noise.

They got within ear-shot of Sherlock and loudly agreed to text each other if there were any news on the case.

They came nearer and a taxi stopped.

Sherlock was already getting inside a cab, John thought for a moment that he might leave without him.

When John sat down next to Sherlock he expected a knowing and unnerved gaze that said I-know-what-you've-been-talking-about, but instead, Sherlock sat upright, his back not touching the seat, staring into space.

The cabbie waited for John to nod then started the car.

"Where do you want to eat?" John would go along with whatever Sherlock suggested.

The consultant needed to gain some weight; he had become even thinner than he had been before his fake death. He did not look good at all.

"Angelo's."

The cab slid into the constant flow of moving cars.

 

 


	2. Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was beta-ed by Imginary number. Many thanks to her.  
> Also a big thank you to Oleta who pointed out mistakes and helped me by explaining them to me.

John spent the day working at the surgery, and Sherlock convinced Lestrade to let him inspect the scene were the London victim had been found.

Sherlock did not answer a single one of the texts John had sent him over the course of the day, so John stopped by the flat on his way home in the evening. Before the Fall Sherlock would have texted him every hour to tell him about the great discoveries he had made or to complain about how dumb Anderson was.

When John arrived, Sherlock was in the kitchen, trying to recreate the drug cocktail the victims of Lestrade's case where administered. The doctor wondered what he wanted it for, and Sherlock claimed he didn't want it for anything, just wanted to see if he could make the cocktail himself, and its antidote. John suggested it was an ego thing, but Sherlock denied that, yet failed to explain it further. So John asked about news on the case. Which was when Sherlock got unnerved.

"Nothing!"

"What do you mean, nothing?"

"I mean exactly what the words says: not a single thing."

"What? No fibres? No hairs? No wrinkles in a bed sheet to tell you the suspect's weight?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"No books or naked cats? Nothing?"

"Three years ago, you did not have this hard of a time understanding common words, did you, John?"

John raised an eyebrow.

"Sorry, I just came here to ask for news and to see if you were okay. If the only thing I can get is insults I better go."

He turned to the door and Sherlock ignored him.

John went down the stairs wondering what had gone wrong and why Sherlock was this pissed.

In the tube he texted Lestrade, who suggested he'd called him later.

John hoped that Sherlock would not succeed in recreating the horrible drug and decide it needed testing.

.

He later learned from Lestrade that Sherlock had searched the victim's flat for hours but came up with nothing, absolutely nothing… Neither did anyone else for that matter, but for the consultant this was a first. Greg suspected he was thunderstruck by his failure to come up with anything… or pissed about the fact that the suspect had outsmarted him and leave him without clues. The DI pointed out several times that John should not take it personally. But John regretted having pushed Sherlock away before and was sad that now, when he was ready to rekindle their friendship, it felt as if Sherlock was pushing him away.

"John, there is something you should now. When he came back and you weren't… available, he asked Molly to accompany him."

"I know."

"You know it was just for maybe four cases?"

"I was involved in one of the cases, it was… odd."

"Why, what happened?"

"He talked to you."

"Talked to me?"

"He… was doing a dialogue with you, even telling you to shut up, once. I thought it was nothing but today he…"

John was surprised, "Today..?"

"He… He did it again, just that it wasn't just two or three sentences. He talked to you two hours straight. I kept everybody out of his way."

"I…" John didn't know what to think about this.

"Yeah, this is… odd."

"Yes, I thought you should know… I think he really wants you back, he's just not able to… handle it."

"Probably, thanks for the update. I'll be in Baker Street tomorrow night… Thank you Greg."

They hung up.

 


	3. Thursday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John temporarily moves back in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was beta-ed by Imginary number. Many thanks to her.  
> Also a big thank you to Oleta who pointed out mistakes and helped me by explaining them to me.
> 
> I probably won't be able to update this fast permanently, but I'll do my best to keep it at a fast pace.  
> Be warned, this story seems to get quite long.

**Thursday**

In the morning, after they both had packed a bag, John dropped Mary off at the station. She would be in Manchester for two weeks to finish her studies, he then headed to the surgery, where he spent the day seeing patients.

After his shift, John picked up Chinese take-out and headed to 221b, where he planned to stay for the next few nights.

While he had waited for their meal to be prepared he sent a text advising Sherlock of his impending arrival, but received no answer. In fact, he had - again - not heard from Sherlock all day, and was longing for the days when Sherlock enthusiastically shared his thoughts with him.

 

The flat was all quiet and only dimly lit when John opened the door to the living room. Sherlock sucked in air in surprise and jerked upright on the sofa, startled by the noise. It seemed he had indeed been asleep if the disoriented look and his fluttering eyes were any indication.

"John?"

"Yeah, it's me. Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

What was the matter with him? Sherlock looked like death warmed over.

"I'm not startled..." Clearly a lie. "What are you doing here?"

John took in Sherlock's appearance casually while putting the food on the table and getting some dishes, bowls and cutlery. Then passed the other man again, observing, while bringing his jacket to the wardrobe.

Sherlock's eyes were sunken and dark, and he was pale, like he hadn't had a good rest for weeks. His hair was sticking to his skull and he looked as if he hadn't showered for at least two days. The dressing gown was rumpled and the pyjama pants were even worse.

"I told you I'd stay over for a few days, you know, solving some cases, having some fun, watching crap telly..."

"You're sure you told me?"

"Yes. Though not sure you listened… Any news on the case?" John changed the subject before it became awkward in a more negative way.

"Lestrade sent some reports, now that they are digging deeper they might have found another victim… from Bristol. The body was already on the way to the burial site when they retrieved it.

"Great, grieving family having their daughter's funeral without her body."

"Son."

John raised his eyebrows, "Doesn't matter for the grieving ones who are interrupted that way."

"Maybe they'll bury it empty for show and not tell the rest of the family. Would probably be easier with the sentiment thing."

"God! Sherlock…"

"Didn't mean it that way… I meant it might be more clement to let them go on with their good-byes rather than prolong the suffering…"

"Please spare me anything that would remind me of your funeral, or empty coffins for the next week, could you?"

Sherlock looked up, a silent 'oh…' on his lips. He did in fact look like he was sorry now, that he had finally understood why John was sensitive to the topic.

"To you, it might have been a small detail, to make the whole suicide-thing more convincing, but to me, attending your funeral was one of the hardest things I've done in my life… So show at least a bit of consideration for the hurt you caused with this little detail, okay?" John's tone was not angry, just sad and tired.

His words visibly affected Sherlock.

John had forgiven him and was more than glad to have him back, but he was still angry and he still hurt - a lot. He wanted Sherlock to understand the enormity of the pain he had caused by keeping him in the dark. He was sure his former flatmate wouldn't have reappeared the way he did if he had the smallest inkling about how inappropriate it was.

Well, now, about two weeks later, he behaved as if he was at least starting to understand.

The silence was growing awkward. After a few seconds, Sherlock gestured towards the files and pictures that were spread over the coffee table.

"Yes… Male victim, police was sure it was… sorry, but… a suicide… No coroner report therefore, yet. The similarity between this death and the other ones brought it to the police's attention. The drug probably won't show any longer, it seems to break down quickly…"

"Maybe the paralysing agent, but there were other drugs in the mix. Maybe some were slower to break down?… Can you show me the components again?"

Sherlock held out a sheet without looking up.

"Do you know these two?" John pointed at two chemicals he was unfamiliar with.

Sherlock stood up, looking at the sheet, "That… Designer drug, expensive, rare. Might show on an extra thorough tox screen, that other one… no."

"Any news about the autopsy from the Plymouth victim that Molly wanted to do today?

"She didn't. Corpse wasn't there, yet."

"Why?"

"No one knows. Lestrade told Donovan to look into it."

Sherlock stiffly rose and reached for his coat on the back of the door.

"Now, let's go see Molly. The Bristol victim will be there shortly…"

"No! Molly's shift ended an hour ago and I brought dinner. Let's eat and look at the file so we know what to look for in the morning."

"I already know what to look for," Sherlock returned the coat to the hook.

"Then enlighten me."

"I'll text Molly to see if she's still at work," the detective insisted.

"She has a boyfriend now, and will likely be eager to get home."

Sherlock was already texting.

"I'm hungry, let's eat."

"You are free to eat, I'll have a shower," and with that the other man headed for the bathroom.

John followed him but then turned to the fridge to check what was inside.

When he opened it, he sighed. There was bagged salad that had already started decomposing, some milk that wasn't really liquid any more, some clear containers with unidentifiable red goop in the compartment Sherlock used for experiments… and several bottles of medication, probably to do with the experiments about the drug.

Was Mrs Hudson preparing meals for the detective? Was he eating regularly?

John would need to keep an eye on that and ask the landlady about it again. She had told him some time ago that she tried to feed Sherlock.

He returned to the table and opened the box of butter chicken while he reflected on their interaction.

Things with Sherlock had never been particularly smooth, but before the Fall, they had had a comfortable routine. Now, everything was awkward and rocky. The doctor knew what his problem was: Sherlock's deception still hurt, though he wanted it to stop hurting so they could continue their friendship.

But what was Sherlock's problem? Was he angry because John had not welcome him back with open arms? Because he had hit him as a welcome-back-greeting?

The consultant detective took his time in the shower and John wondered if staying over for a few days was such a good idea after all.

Maybe it was too soon. Was he invading Sherlock's privacy?… Was his former flatmate telling him he was not happy about John's plan?

No, if that was the case, he'd say so directly, not leave subtle clues, at least to that, John was certain.

Sherlock came out of his room dressed in a tightly closed fresh dressing gown and warm pyjamas underneath, it seemed.

Molly must have answered then and told him she wasn't at Barts, otherwise Sherlock would already be fully dressed. But the tall man sat down on the sofa again and started elaborating on his few ideas and thoughts on the case without preamble.

 

Three hours and a boring documentary later John decided to head to bed while Sherlock continued to ponder the facts. He was lying on the sofa in the familiar pose with hands under his chin, ignoring the doctor completely.

John smiled with the realisation how grateful he was to get the gift of seeing that again. After Sherlock's 'death' he had so often stared at the sofa and wished him to be lying there. The wish had been granted… he had been heard.

He bit his lips, overwhelmed with this thought and the memory. He fought the emotions down, no need for Sherlock to see this, he'd probably not understand.

Maybe he needed to show Sherlock clearly how grateful he was to have him back, and that he wanted him in his life. Well, this was what this was all about. He hoped Sherlock would understand.

All the trust John seemed to have earned and the access to Sherlock's feelings and innermost thoughts he had been granted before the Fall seemed to have vanished. Had that happened before or after Sherlock's return?

John wondered if asking Mycroft about it would be good idea. Probably not, though the two brothers were meeting more frequently than they had in the past, or so it seemed to John. The fact that his parents had been in the flat made him wonder if Sherlock's family was as worried as he was. The detective was so withdrawn, chances were high he was not like this just with John, which made the doctor feel better in some ways, but overall made the situation even more worrisome.

Some time later John stored Sherlock's uneaten meal in the fridge and went up the stairs with his duffel bag.

His room was in a habitable state, as he had slept there already once the previous week. When he had moved out two years ago he had left many of things there, because he couldn't handle the memories of the old flat. Now he was glad it was the way it had been then. The bed felt good, so familiar… so safe… so much like home… The impression that he was an invader in here evaporated and he slept.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:  
> Please review, I am eager to know what you think.


	4. Friday – On the road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: not my characters, see the beginning of the first chapter for details.  
> I am not a native speaker, so if my English is a bit bumpy sometimes please forgive me.  
> To those who were so nice to write a review: Thank you very much for the feedback, you are great! I love to read what you think. :)
> 
> This chapter was beta-ed by Imaginary Number.

 

 

The next morning, when John went downstairs and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, he showered and left for the surgery, glad today's shift would be short.

He returned to 221b at 14:15, and Sherlock was halfway down the stairs, clad in his coat, before John had stepped inside.

"Finally!"

"You were waiting for me? I didn't get the text… if you sent one," John frowned.

"Yes. I didn't text you, so you couldn't have known… so I didn't expect you to know."

"Really?"

"Can we stop this nonsense and go?" Sherlock hurried past him through the door. By the time John had closed the door behind himself, the other man had already raised his hand to hail a cab.

John shook his head in disbelieve.

"What's going on?"

"We're going to Bristol."

"What?"

"I arranged a visit to the crime scene."

"We're going alone?"

"'We' and 'alone' in the same sentence is a bit of a contradiction, wouldn't you say?"

"What I meant is: Are we going by ourselves; Lestrade is not coming with us?"

"He's busy, and he trusted me to behave appropriately."

"Did he now?" John grinned.

Had Lestrade told Sherlock not to talk aloud to people who weren't there?… Had Sherlock waited for him because having him around would make Sherlock's talking to thin air less suspicious?

"Why are you trying to get a cab then?"

"To get to the station."

"Let's take my car."

"Why?"

"Because after working the morning shift I'd like some peace and quiet."

"And you get that while driving?"

"Yes. No, but so more than I would on a train."

"Okay."

John grinned, and hoped it would not be an awkward trip.

 

It took quite a while to get out of London, but finally they were driving westward on the A4.

Sherlock was not eager to talk it seemed, so John started to make conversation.

"Any news about the victim from the Plymouth crime scene?"

"I was with Molly this morning when she did the autopsy."

"And?"

"There were no IV marks, so we hypothesized that she was given the cocktail orally. This was confirmed by an analysis of her saliva."

"Anything else?"

"The clothes she had on when she was found were fresh, probably taken from her wardrobe. No signs that someone else dressed her, though the perpetrator might have helped her. Talcum from gloves on several spots."

"That's odd. So, that's something then, isn't it? Anything else?"

"I have been asked to be present for an… event… or aftermath of an old case, depends."

John blinked at the unexpected topic change and studied Sherlock for a moment.

"What kind of event?"

"Celebration at a London Buddhist temple."

"Eh, can we finish that other topic, first?"

"As you wish."

"Do we know yet why the delivery of the body was delayed?"

"No. Is this topic finished now?"

"Do you plan to investigate the delay?"

"Why?"

"Because it feels odd."

"Molly said the same. She informed me that in her whole professional life this had only happened once before… and back then the body was accidentally switched, causing some nasty headlines."

"Okay, so what temple?"

Sherlock made a noise, and it took John about five seconds to realise that it was a word, but not an English word; maybe a name.

"What? What happened there?"

"Nothing. I was invited to attend a ceremony…"

"I got that, what case? When? Why?"

"I helped out at a temple in the Himalayas and was invited because I saved the… doesn't matter." Sherlock suddenly remembered his decision not to tell John about the cases he had solved by himself or during his hiatus. He wanted to prevent John from getting… jealous, or something.

"Where?"

Sherlock made another sound and this time, John didn't even realise it was a name.

"What? Why do I have to fight for every tiny bit of information, here?"

"Most Buddhist temples are in Asia."*

"You were in Asia?"

"Obviously..."

"You actually spent time in a temple?"

"Few weeks. It was a very interesting experience."

"What did you do there?"

"Why is that relevant?"

"I'm interested in what you did the past two years."

Sherlock now had a dubious expression on his face.

"I do want to know what you were up to," John said again, hoping his sincerity was coming across.

"What for?"

Did John want to feel left out, so he could throw another fit? Or did he have another motivation for asking these questions? "Did Mycroft offer you something for getting details?"

"God, Sherlock…"

"He did offer before, so…"

"You've been such a dick, lately! Do you want me out of the flat, out of your life? Then please, just say so!"

"I… NO!" The horrified look on Sherlock's face made it clear he was insulted and surprised by the question and the suggestion.

"Well, you act like you do. Ignoring me, withdrawing, shutting me out… feels unwelcome."

"I'm not yet really… acclimatised to having the pleasure of a companion again." His former flatmate sounded hesitant. Either this was a whole-hearted confession, or Sherlock was making fun of the doctor.

"Are you pulling my leg?" John asked in a soft voice, now much more careful.

"No," was Sherlock's simple reply.

Sherlock felt the tension still hovering in the air, the same one that had built up in the restaurant, immediately after his first meeting with John… It felt like an stale sickly beige thin mist and clouded their interaction.

Sherlock wanted it gone - it felt not good - but he did not know how to help it dissolve. He knew he had hurt John, more like he ever thought he could hurt anyone.

He was still not sure if John wanted him back in his life, though he had said he had forgiven Sherlock for it, he seemed… hesitating. Sherlock assumed that forgiving was something completely different from wanting something back… John had said he'd need time to come to terms with the whole thing. Sherlock had been irritated when John announced he wanted to stay over.

Was John here to do that? Coping? Was there even a chance that things could be back to the way they had been? ~~~~

"I didn't mean to insult you…," Sherlock stated when John kept silent.

"Stop, there are two topics getting mixed up here! A: me with you in this, and B: you being closed up about the past two years… apparently, not only with me, but with Mycroft, too."

Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin line.

Which made it obvious to John that this was not only still difficult for him.

"So you do want me around?" John ventured.

Sherlock didn't react.

"Blimey! Sherlock, do you want me back in your life?"

"I just said that… and I thought all my interactions during that terrorist case had made that quiet clear," Sherlock pressed out, affronted.

"No, you said that you were not used to having the pleasure of a companion; you said nothing about wanting me as one, or wanting one at all…"

"Who else would I want?"

That statement left John speechless; he pinched the back of his nose.

"Would you take me back?" Sherlock asked in a low voice, not looking at John.

Was he ashamed? If he was, it was definitely a first.

"Of course I do. Why do you think I am here?" John stated softly.

"Don't know, bored?"

"No, Sherlock, I'm usually not bored. I want to spend time with you."

John saw the other man's state of confusion more clearly now. Sherlock had definitely not expected their reunion to be like this.

But what had he expected? That everything would be as it had been before? He couldn't have been that dumb. But he looked totally confused about it. He had clearly wished it to be different. This conversation was out of character for the detective. Had his short episode of rejection left such a dent in Sherlock's trust? What the hell was happening?

Sherlock again stared blindly ahead, and John waited in silence for any more attempts at conversation.

"Thank you," he finally said, after what seemed like several minutes.

"For what?" Sherlock's voice was hoarse.

"For telling me."

They hadn't been this open and direct before; it was difficult for both of them, even this tiny bit. John knew they were both stiff with hesitation about the awkwardness of Sherlock's return, but the first steps towards restoring their friendship had been made, and that was enough for the time being. "Tell me about the temple."

Sherlock did, but he left out if and how this was connected to Moriarty's web. It would have taken him approximately twenty-seven and a half hours to elaborate on that and he was not eager to relive that all right then.

About two hours later they arrived at the Bristol police station.

 

 

…

 

* If I identified it right, the monastery shown in the mini-episode is actually in Nepal, it must be Thyangboche (Tengboche) Monastery with the Ama Dablam in the Background, near the Everest.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:  
> Constructive criticism welcome.


	5. Friday – The crime scene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gattis or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.  
> I am really glad Mr. Moffat and Mr. Gattis created and own them, and made this terrific show. Thank you so much!
> 
> Beta-ed by ImaginaryNumber. Many thanks for her efforts.

 

 

They spoke to the DI responsible for the case before SY had taken over. His name was Green. He introduced himself kindly but didn't try to shake hands.

"So, our body is in London, and the London detectives are here."

"I'm a consulting detective and not officially employed by Scotland Yard."

"Doesn't matter; I was told you're good and to assist you," Green looked at John, "So who are you?"

"Dr. John Watson, nice to meet you."

"Oh, handy to have a doctor at crime scenes, forensics?"

"No, I usually prefer them breathing," John smiled, "Former Army doctor."

"Oh, seen the world then?"

"Some hot and sandy spots, yeah."

"Uh…" the DI muttered, as if he knew what that meant, "Glad to have you here. This case was really odd. You want some coffee?"

"Yes," John answered, in need of caffeine.

"I'd prefer to go to see the crime scene right away," Sherlock said, in his usual hurry, "Odd in which way?"

"The family was convinced their son never would have committed suicide… and when we called the body back they seemed relieved that the investigation was resumed. The scene was so clean, you know, usually suicides are… I don't know, different… feel different," Green explained, handing over cups with fresh coffee from his own machine. Then shoving sugar and milk in their direction.

"What way?" Sherlock asked.

Was the man really describing how the scene felt?

He had never met anybody beside himself who considered this a valid point. He accepted the coffee and sat down, his hurry to leave forgotten.

"It was so… neat… clean, no signs of distress, no signs of depression, no signs of somebody needing comfort. It's hard to describe."

"Try! What does needing comfort look like?"

"I don't know… used handkerchiefs, meds, alcohol or drugs, cosy bed, used pillows on the ground to make it more comfortable, pictures, memorabilia of better days, reminders of any sort," Green listed what came to his mind, "It's hard to describe, you know, all those things people might want to have with them when they end their lives."

"Alright, those are probably not different from those one chooses for general comfort," John said. He had seen his share of suicides in Afghanistan and he remembered finding tokens of emotional comfort with most of the victims: pictures, a strand of hair, jewellery.

"I mean, what would you want to have with you?" John asked, it was a rhetorical question.

"I never thought about it, to be honest," Green stated.

"I think that what one wants to have accompany them while dying varies profoundly by personality. I'd prefer to have a person I care about nearby," Sherlock stated, and John almost dropped the cup of coffee he was still holding.

He looked at Sherlock and suddenly it became very clear to him what Sherlock had only hinted at, , when they talked about the fall before. That when Sherlock had been standing on that roof he hadn't been sure if he'd survive the whole thing… It was written all over Sherlock's face right now, how bad it had been to stand there… and the insight hit John like a punch in the face.

Sherlock looked down, regretting to not have kept his mouth shut; he looked like his own memories had punched him, too.

John felt a rush of anger about having this bomb thrown at him in public and without warning. But this might be Sherlock's only way to share these feelings; spontaneously gushing out at brief moments of lacking self restraint. John wondered why the other man seemed to have a lot of those lately.

To make the whole thing even more awkward, he remembered the moment when he had sat in the flat, shortly after Sherlock's funeral, and held the violin…

No, don't go there.

He sipped the coffee, just to doing something to keep him in the present.

 

Sherlock watched John sipping the coffee.

The doctor had paled considerably during the discussion after Sherlock's remark he kicked himself mentally for mentioning it.

Had he said something wrong?

Obviously.

All the protect-John's-feelings-routines he had established still failed miserably.

He just wanted John to know that he was grateful for his friend's presence when he stood at the roof.

Though the lies he had needed to tell, and the fact that he knew he'd have to leave John in London to protect him had caused the worst attacks of sentiment he had had in years...

Standing there alone, he had cried for the first time in decades. And as much as the tears fit the act, they were honest tears, provoked in no small part by the knowledge that he had to part ways with John, and leave him in the dark… it had shaken him.

Whenever he said something concerning the past two years or how he was with all this, John was… emotionally bad somehow….

Both of them needed to heal, but no matter how careful, superficial or sensitive he tried to be, he just seemed to be causing more hurt. He was not used to being this incompetent - at anything.

It was like running a stony path in the dark, wounds bound to occur.

Was this what helplessness felt like?

Lately, many of their interactions and conversations had the bad after tone of a minefield. He was at a loss how to erase that.

Not knowing how to handle the feelings this situation had caused, he looked for the nearest exit.

"Eh, yeah. I'd like to go to the scene as soon as possible, we need to get back to London tonight and it's a long drive. Thank you for the coffee," Sherlock pushed, downing his coffee as fast as he could. He saw John frown while carefully sipping the hot liquid.

"Sure… I'll go with you. Here are copies of the original crime scene pictures, taken minutes after the victim was found," Green handed over a Manila folder, "The scene is still untouched. The family was not able to go there, yet."

"None of them?"

"No… too much of a trauma I guess. We'd have gone in there with anybody who wished to enter, but no one did."

"That's odd. Who identified the victim?" John wanted to know.

"The sister, at the morgue."

"Okay, let's go then," Sherlock put his mug down and nodded towards the door.

 

Half an hour later they were combing through the flat.

Signs of a typical suicide were indeed missing.

One couldn't even guess where - in the neat and tidy place - the victim had been found. At first glance, nothing looked out of the ordinary. Nothing indicated it was a crime scene at all.

"The London victim's flat looked perfectly normal, as well," Sherlock explained.

The young man had been found on his stylish white designer sofa. As if he had fallen asleep watching the telly and never woke up.

"The TV was on when we arrived and…"

"Which channel?" Sherlock interrupted.

"Some drama, but we don't know what was on when he died, so no telling what he was watching. Not yet, at least."

John looked up at the ceiling. He bet that instead of answering the question, half the detectives at SY would have stupidly asked why the TV channel was important. Their companion was refreshingly open to everything thrown his way.

Sherlock stood in front of the sofa and held the picture of the man on the sofa in front of him, like watching the corpse.

Then he took a step to the left to stand in the exact same position the photographer had stood. His gaze wandered from the table to the ceiling and the left armrest of the designer furnishings. Then he knelt in front of the sofa, inspecting the surface closely.

"White leather, almost impossible to find any talcum on this," Sherlock murmured.

"Talcum?" Green repeated.

"Yes, the clothes of the Plymouth victim were stained with residue of talcum, from gloves."

"As far as I know there was not talcum here at all."

"Non-sterile gloves are packed without talcum, or with only a very small amount," John offered.

"Right," Sherlock mused and then bowed down to look under the sofa, which was funny to watch, because he fetched the tail of his coat to make sure it didn't touch anything, and because the underside of the sofa was only about two inches above the ground.

"John, go to the backside and shine a light under the sofa so I can see if there's anything under it," Sherlock ordered and held out an electrical torch John had never seen before.

He did as the detective had asked and Sherlock all but pressed the side of his head into the carpet to peek under the sofa with his left eye.

"Ah!" He yelled in triumph, startling John and Green alike.

John tried to get a glimpse of what Sherlock had found, too, but it was no use.

"Help me move it," Sherlock gestured at the sofa.

It was a very heavy object and Sherlock insisted they lift and not drag it.

When they bent, John saw him close his eyes briefly, before they lifted it on three.

They sat it down a meter to the back, trying not to step on the area now revealed.

Sherlock unfolded his magnifier and started inspecting the floor.

In the middle of the uncovered space were cuticle scissors, two half pistachios and half a shell, dust, and the back of a silver ear stud.

"Evidence bags, please," Sherlock held out his now gloved hand without looking.

John rolled his eyes and handed him three bags and a pair of tweezers. The consulting detective bagged all items and labelled them neatly.

Combing through the living room took almost an hour, the bedroom another half hour, nothing there. There was also a study and the kitchen, which was a part of the living room.

When Sherlock found a laptop he booted it.

After several minutes of clicking through a mailing-application and two social-network-programs Sherlock exclaimed, "Yes, yes, yes!"

John and Green had been standing behind him and watching his hands fly over the keyboard. John had the impression Sherlock's computer skills had improved. He had been good with computers, but not this good and fast before.

Finally Sherlock started a search for files containing the word 'guy4*' and another one that searched 'files that were modified since the 3rd' via Windows Explorer and waited.

"Take us through it, please," John reminded him to share his thoughts.

"He was neither dating nor having a relationship, the latter we already expected, because his relatives said so. He was hetero, and in his mid twenties, he was visited by couples, but he preferred to hang out with his male friends. They sometimes did some heavy drinking and did bad practical jokes… He was visited by a gay couple, and by his sister… and a stranger came by… whom he knew only in passing."

"How do you know?" Green asked.

"Well, he liberally inflicted his leisure-time schedule on the world… Faceblah-yada, chirping-and-so on and all that 'abolish-privacy'-nonsense people do online nowadays."

John chuckled.

"He told the internet all about whom he met and when and why, but the date he went on two days before he vanished from the face of the earth for seven days is not mentioned anywhere!"

"Seven days?" Green asked

"Yes, his family told us they saw him last on the 3rd of November, the body was found on the 11th… Family tried to contact him but didn't check on him… He was here for almost 14 hours before he was killed. The computer was used on the 10th for several hours. System files have been changed on the 10th and 11th."

"How do you know the other stuff?"

There are dried bodily fluids on the surface of the leather sofa… I found them when looking for talcum… I'm quite sure it's saliva and tears… Due to the position where the victim's head was found. He must have laid on that sofa paralysed for quite some time, more than a few hours, I'd say. Otherwise the fluids wouldn't have left such clearly visible residues… Although he didn't post who he was with. One of the posts mentions a 'guy4578'… He was not online dating. The username appears nowhere else… Chances are good it was a superficial acquaintance he met for the first time or for the first time longer than 'briefly'. One of them was in a hurry and instead of exchanging phone numbers they wrote down their usernames," Sherlock explained. His deduction was as fast as usual.

"4578 is a combination of numbers that suggests the account was supposed to be short lived. It's the square of the four upper numbers on the left side of the numpad on the keyboard. Lazy people use those, or those who plan to use an account only temporarily and want to remember the login easily. I'm sure the person was male, most women would chose a more personal nick… and probably avoid the word 'guy', although there's a chance for intentional misleading…"

"We got it, Sherlock."

"I didn't find any accounts on social networks with this username that are likely to belong to our perpetrator."

"What did you find?" Green asked.

"A twelve year old boy from Japan and a funster from Greece claiming he found Metropolis… I mean Atlantis I'd understand, but Metropolis… It seems to be a fake nick-name. Deleted accounts usually stay in the system for quite some time. I'll have it checked, though. I want to take the computer for further analysis."

"Okay. I'll do the paperwork," Green agreed.

Sherlock did another sweep through the kitchen but found nothing else he interpreted as important.

Half an hour later they said their good-byes and headed for John's car.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's about to get intense in the next chapter… I mean Sherlock's problems will really start to show.  
> Please let me know what you think.


	6. Saturday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gattis or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.  
> I am really glad Mr. Moffat and Mr. Gattis created and own them, and made this terrific show. Thank you so much! 
> 
> This chapter was beta-ed by ImginaryNumber. Many thanks to her.  
> Also a big thank you to Oleta who pointed out mistakes and helped me by explaining them to me.

 

 

They had returned from Bristol late the day before, thanks to a large traffic jam it was one in the morning before John finally fell into his bed. It had been a very long day and he just wanted to sleep.

Saturday morning Sherlock was flat on his back on the sofa when John entered the living room. His face was tense and John was therefore sure that he was awake so he didn't hesitate to speak.

"Want some tea?"

Sherlock jerked upwards, jumping of the sofa.

John was so startled about the reaction, he stood there, mouth open and gaping.

"Easy, easy, just me."

The detective's face showed a minute hint of real distress before the mask slipped in place, John saw he suppressed his urge to pant, using an enormous amount of willpower.

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you."

Since when was Sherlock so jumpy?

"It's okay, I'm not startled," Sherlock pressed out.

"What was that then? Testing how fast you could get up?" John tried to joke.

Sherlock said nothing, hurried into the kitchen and put the kettle on, "Tea?"

"Yes, thank, you."

Since when did Sherlock make tea for himself in the morning? Usually it was Mrs Hudson, now that John was no longer living there.

"Any news?"

"Texted Molly to ask if she found anything interesting. No answer yet."

John vanished into the bathroom while the other man started to read the newspaper, standing up in front of the kitchen table, bending over it.

 

Fifteen minutes later John emerged and they had breakfast. Sherlock ate some biscuits at least.

During their meal Sherlock's mobile beeped, he immediately fetched it and opened the text message.

"Molly has results," Sherlock jumped up and vanished into his bedroom, only to come back two minutes later, fully dressed but still unshaven.

John hastily munched the last piece of his toast and downed the rest of his tea.

"Give me a minute to get dressed and then we can go."

"Fast, John."

"Yeah, you'll need your time to shave, so no need to push me."

"Shave?"

"Unless you're going for the two-day-old beard-look now."

"Oh. Forgot."

John raised his eyebrows; that was a first. The longest period John had seen Sherlock not shave was when he went undercover once, constantly complaining about the sensory input the stubbles gave him and the itch.

"You _forgot_??"

"Yes, problem? Not used to it, lately."

"What?"

How was he not…? Sherlock _had_ been undercover recently, yes.

"Hurry, John. I want to leave as soon as possible… Still glad you shaved it off, though."

John stood there, frowning for two seconds, then went to get dressed, a grin on his face. Why was this moustache thing such a big topic? Sherlock had returned to it repeatedly.

Ten minutes later they left the house.

"We can take my car," John offered when Sherlock raised his hand for a cab.

"Okay," Sherlock agreed, again.

 

They entered the morgue half an hour later, looking for Molly.

Three bodies were on the tables and Molly entered a minute after them, while Sherlock was already searching through the report that was on the nearby desk. The smell in there was even worse than usual.

"Oh, hallo," she greeted, "I just needed a coffee break, no more great insights yet, besides the results I already texted you."

"I'm glad to watch," Sherlock offered, "May I take a look myself?"

"Of course."

John stood nearby, once more with raised eyebrows.

Had Sherlock just politely asked?

Molly acted not really surprised. The doctor had known Sherlock had regular contact with her over the past two years, which made him feel shut out once more.

Sherlock's and Molly's dynamics had obviously changed or at least shifted. The consultant had hinted she had been on a case with him and Greg had told him some details.

The doctor didn't know which cases it had been, but Sherlock had obviously trusted her with them. He discovered he felt the slightest bit of jealousy. But according to Greg it had only happened after John refused him.

Well, for some reason they were not doing it any longer and had not done it for long. Maybe because of Molly's boyfriend? He seemed to be a nice guy.

They did the autopsy of the Bristol victim together. Molly hinted she had switched two autopsies and done the other one yesterday, so Sherlock and John could join her today.

 

Two and a half hours later they had determined that the this victim definitely did not have any needle marks anywhere. Instead, Molly found residue of the same mixture of substances the man had been drugged with on his skin, which was odd. But Sherlock determined quickly that the young man had been forced to swallow several doses of it, in that progress some of the liquid had been spilled and landed on his temple, his throat and his ear.

They also found some unknown fibres under his right toenail, which they compared to the socks the man had worn when he died, but they were different and the fibre didn't look like anything used to make clothing at all.

All other fibres and fluids they found were collected as usual and put into specimen containers for a later lab analysis.

In the early afternoon they agreed to have a short break and meet in the cafeteria after lunch, since Molly had an appointment.

 

Much to John's dismay Sherlock stepped outside to smoke.

"When did you start again?" he complained when they sat down in a corner.

"Some months ago."

"Why?"

"There were many things more important than fighting the need for nicotine."

"Really? Like what?"

"Surviving for example, keeping my limbs…" Sherlock stated absently, obviously not really listening to what he was saying.

"Jesus, Sherlock!" The doctor wondered if Sherlock would shut the door in his face if he started to ask directly about it, "How many times have you…"

"Enough times to smoke again, obviously," Sherlock interrupted, that was clearly a door. Why was Sherlock so clamped up about his hiatus? Because John had refused to listen when he first tried to tell him how he faked his death? Was Sherlock just ratty about it or was there more?

"We should go to Scotland Yard, as soon as we're finished here. Probably faster than faxing the stuff, waiting for Donovan to read it and then tell Lestrade who then calls…" Sherlock seemed to talk just to divert him from the original question.

A few seconds later he stumped out the cigarette and hurried back in, John followed.

 

They spent the next two hours in the lab but found no further clues, or at least none Sherlock would get excited about or that made him bristle with ideas. If he had some he kept them to himself.

He didn't talk a lot at all.

Sherlock texted Lestrade sometime during the day to ask if they could come over but Lestrade wasn't at SY.

_'I'll come over tomorrow, we can discuss case then. Lestrade.'_

Sherlock read out the text, his face showing he was irritated about being rejected.

"Well, good. We'll have some time to chat then. Last time I saw Lestrade in a relaxed atmosphere was… well, months ago," John informed.

 

Evening found John and Sherlock in front of the telly again.

John had cooked to make sure Sherlock ate properly, which he did.

They spend time on their laptops, John mailing Mary and Sherlock researching things he wouldn't elaborate on.

John went to bed early.

 


	7. Sunday morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being at Baker Street again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gattis or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.
> 
> I am not a native speaker and this is unbeta-ed, please try to ignore my grammar mistakes… or tell me where they are :)

 

 

When John entered the kitchen the next morning, Sherlock was sitting on the armrest of John's armchair, manipulating his left leg's calf muscles.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Nothing. Cramp," Sherlock's face showed nothing of the pain, just his anger about being bothered by his transport.

"Sit down," John ordered.

"I am sitting."

"No, you're leaning against the chair. Sit down properly."

"What for?"

"To let me have a look at it."

"No," Sherlock straightened and then tried to walk away, his face contorted slightly.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I'm going to the bathroom. I need a leak."

John rolled his eyes.

Fine, if he wanted privacy for his pain...

The door was shut not too gently and John put on the kettle and sighed inwardly.

A few minutes later the shower was switched on.

John started to make himself breakfast and he decided to let Sherlock run aground for a change with breakfast today. He had refused to eat every morning they had seen each other. Now he fixed breakfast only for himself… he wanted to find out what would happen. Mrs Hudson was away today and she wouldn't bring up tea.

The kitchen table was still covered with Sherlock's latest experiments so he sat down in the living room to eat.

Ten minutes later Sherlock went to his room for fresh clothes and came back to sit on the sofa, busy with unwrapping fresh nicotine patches.

The doctor didn't comment and just waited.

After applying just one patch Sherlock fetched his phone and started typing. He did not give the impression of someone who was wondering about anything… or was aware about a companion.

Just like old times, John thought.

He had wished to get _this_ back, to sit at the table eating while Sherlock was rummaging around the flat ignoring him… now he _had_ it.

Why wasn't he overwhelmed with joy?

Maybe because it had the bitter taste of not being welcome.

Sherlock had said he wanted him here and was just no longer accustomed to a companion… What could that possibly mean, except the pure meaning of the words? That Sherlock had been quite alone the whole time, probably acting alone, no backup, no one's company?

Had he missed John?

Maybe he had, but confessing that would be a whole different thing.

Or had he already?… Yes, he _had_ said he wanted only him, considering how emotionally Sherlock usually was this was quite a confession about how he was missing him.

But John needed more, the diffuse way how his former flatmate hinted at possible feelings was not enough.

John needed to know he was not just an object, useful when needed… he couldn't endure any kind of being treated like that ever again. He needed some kind of proof of … loyalty?… at least some sign of friendship.

Before John could think about it any further the doorbell rang.

Sherlock ignored it.

When it rang for the second time Sherlock yelled, "Mrs Hudson!"

"She's not home, remember? She's away with her… friend."

"Lover would be more accurate."

"Eh…" John moaned but also didn't rose. It was Sherlock's flat now, he'd have to open the door himself.

It rang again.

"Shut up!" Sherlock yelled and John grinned.

This was just like old times… and in a good way.

The next moment Sherlock's phone rang, and when the other man picked up a voice on the other end could be heard, simultaneously someone banged at the front door.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and finally went to answer it.

A few moments later Lestrade and Sherlock entered the living room.

"Hey," the DI greeted John.

"Oh, hi."

"Sherlock, I swear, next time you don't let me in I use my key and…."

"Why didn't you? That's why I gave it to you, so you could unlock the door. Thought that would be common knowledge… to use it to unlock doors," Sherlock slumped into the sofa.

Lestrade didn't respond, but threw John a desperate look.

"So, what's the news?" Sherlock poked when Lestrade didn't speak immediately.

"You want some coffee, Greg?" John stood up and headed to the kitchen, Lestrade followed.

"Yeah, thanks mate," Lestrade stripped off his coat and threw it over a kitchen chair.

They could hear Sherlock grunted demonstratively in protest about being ignored, and Lestrade threw John a mischievous look. The doctor made some more coffee, but enough this time so Sherlock could have some, too.

"Any progress with…?" Lestrade twitched his head in the direction of the living room.

John shook his head when he heard Sherlock getting up.

"Well, he haven't been to a pub for ages, call me if you want to visit the best pub in London for a change tonight," Lestrade offered in a louder voice while taking a seat at the full table.

"Yeah, you're right, has been ages since we went for a beer."

 

Sherlock followed them into the kitchen, he suspected they were talking about him when he couldn't hear it. They showed all the signs, but he wasn't able to get hold of it, yet.

Would they stay in the flat if he bought beer?

He wanted their company. Worth a try, he set a mental metal reminder to go shopping.

 

"What did you find out."

"I thought you'd never ask," Lestrade smiled at Sherlock and handed over a small staple of papers, folded in the middle to fit into his pocket, "There might has been another victim. We're still checking the facts… A young women with unusual marks on her legs in Dublin. And here are the results of Molly's tests," Greg handed over more papers.

"Uh, that's nice of you bringing them in on a Sunday, isn't it?"

"Yes, Sherlock. It's nice of me. Kind you notice," Lestrade informed in a neutral tone, watching Sherlock's face closely.

"It's odd, our killer seems to travel around a lot… Even if this one is not his work," John wondered and poured Lestrade a coffee, than sat down with his mug in his hand.

"Yeah… Ta."

"You want some coffee, too, Sherlock?"

"Yes, please."

John filled another mug.

Sherlock went to the cupboard to get sugar, then shoved the parts of his experiment together, so they only took to a minimum of space on the table. He sat next to Lestrade and started to read the papers.

John was used to being ignored like this, but Lestrade was visibly uneasy, so John started some smalltalk.

In the end they decided to go to Lestrade's favourite pub in the evening. This was when Sherlock seemed to start listening to them again. Lestrade invited him too, but Sherlock refused.

 

Both spend the rest of the day in the flat, each doing their own business.

Sherlock read the new information on the case and the lab results in detail - and except the last one - did it in silence.

John finished some paper work he had brought from the surgery and tried to appreciate Sherlock was still alive and they were doing daily things just like in old times.

The silence felt just like old times.

John watched his former flatmate for long periods when he was sure he was not paying attention to him.

No, not really like old times. Before the Fall Sherlock had had episodes where he didn't speak and phases when he was talking without end enthusiastically, no matter what others wanted to say or to contribute. Well, the latter were amiss now.

Sherlock's posture was no longer as upright and energetic, overflowing with activity as he used to be. The detective's facial expressions, that were often quite exaggerated or out of line in the past, were missing now. His face was a mask most of the time. And his eyes… he looked haunted and tired.

This was a depression, the doctor had sensed it before, but he had been so busy with his own anger and emotions he had not taken it seriously until Lestrade had said it last Tuesday. Greg was right, and the longer he spent in Sherlock's company the clearer it was to him, too. First, Sherlock's feelings were like icebergs and second, he was too good an actor. The tiny bit that was visible meant the main part was unseen, the dangerous, intense and important parts.

Sherlock was hurting with this whole thing, too… a lot. But what was the real reason?

John knew the reason he himself was depressed.

Initially it was because Sherlock was dead and he was missing him, well, this was kind of out of date…. though it still lingered. This was how it had been the last two years, combined with the fact that his PTSD had resurfaced with full force the day Sherlock had jumped of that dammit roof… Stupidly his depression had not yet realised that this fact was not real any longer. Sherlock was back and alive and it was all…

Yeah, what was it?…

Anger…

Grief and desperation had changed into anger, about not being trusted enough to be included in Sherlock's hiatus, and about being left out of the plans… and about how cruel Sherlock had been to do this all to him.

But what was it that made the other man depressed?

Absence of cases couldn't be a reason… He had plenty of case-solving in the past weeks and months as it seemed.

John doubted the consultant would be depressed about things like relationships, at least he had never been in the past.

Was that true?

Maybe not, before the Fall it had happened that Sherlock had been stressed when John was pissed at him, and later in their time as flatmates had even learned to say sorry or to speak about problems in their interactions.

But that was far from… _this_. In the most extreme John had yelled how bad he had behaved and Sherlock would have asked why it was bad and would have stored the information with the tag 'don't do this' and the next day it would have been in the past and back to usual, at least for Sherlock.

Nowadays the detective was more impatient with people he didn't like… but he was more patient with _John_ than ever before.

He also held back or hadn't the impulse for critic or inappropriate behaviour.

He was… not Sherlock somehow.

He didn't boast with how he had taken down Moriarty's net. He had started to at the second restaurant, but John had killed it within the first attempt, had punched him.

Since then Sherlock had not spoken about it, had been closed up about the thing. Well, he had made two or three remarks about how he had felt that were kind of bombs on John, but the doctor doubted they were meant to hurt him. On those occasions it seemed that things were coming to the surface and Sherlock wasn't managing to stop them, or that he wanted to open up a bit but didn't realise the situation was all wrong.

Well, at least this hadn't changed. With this Sherlock was still like a child learning what was socially appropriate.

Sherlock evaded the Moriarty topic radically. But John knew he needed to know about what had happened sooner or later, he had only rejected it during their reunion because it was too much and he was so furious, and besides he was angry because Sherlock seemed to think it was the most important thing he wanted to talk about.

 


	8. Sunday evening – Baker Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to do something for his friendship with John and Greg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gattis or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.
> 
> I am not a native speaker and this is unbeta-ed, please try to ignore my grammar mistakes.
> 
> Many thanks to Oleta who helps me by pointing out mistakes. :)

 

 "I'll be back in an hour," Sherlock reached for his coat, it was 19:45.

"Where are you going?"

"Tesco."

"What?" John's reaction could almost be described as comical. He looked as if he didn't believe it.

"Where are you _really_ going?"

"I told you, Tesco."

"You want me to accompany you?"

"That would be a waste of time, I'll buy milk and some chemicals I need for experiments."

No need to tell John he needed medical supplies and wanted to buy beer. He didn't want John to see what he planned to buy, but realised when he saw John's expression that the doctor had become suspicious and that it might be difficult to leave him at home. "I need some things, too," John stood up.

Definitely trying to come along.

"You have a date and I might need longer. I don't want you to be late."

He had in fact waited until now to be able to use this argument. Right now he wondered why he hadn't waited until John was gone? Tesco in Melcombe Street was open until 23:00 on Sundays…

Why hadn't he?… Dumb.

As long as this task was hovering gloomily ahead he found he couldn't concentrate all afternoon, had made him restless and the need to get it over with was urging him to go.

Without paying more attention to John's protest he just left, glad when John didn't follow. He needed to walk a bit more through London again. Needed some familiarity, cataloguing what had changed… savouring what hadn't. Feel the streets, see actual British road signs, hear typical London sounds.

He looked down the streets several times, fearing John might follow him from a distance. But his former flatmate was nowhere to be seen.

Smelling the big city… Walking was much more intense on all his senses than going somewhere with a cab.

Left-hand-traffic, he had missed _that_. It was so confusing when traffic happened like mirrored in some countries. Irritating, dangerous, even sitting in the backseat was arduous.

He needed some harmless painkillers to take the edge off and he was aware that he should take a look at his back, eventually use an antibacterial ointment for the areas that had started to itch and were seeping into his vest.

He also needed to get beer so he could offer John and Lestrade to socialise at 221b in the future, not in a pub.

Pubs were as awful as large stores, though on a different level. Loud, too many twinkling fine structures getting on his nerves, screaming labels on products with red 'new' speech bubbles and advertisement everywhere, one trying to overtop the other with even louder colours and more ugly overlarge fonts.

Pubs were at least not optically this annoying, but the presence of people having fun, being slightly drunken or yelling at a football game on the telly, equally unnerving. Pubs were a lot darker, which was good, but the odour of the clientele present was more likely to be bad, and the possibility to keep an appropriate distance from another being was harder than in a supermarket.

Stores mostly gave him headaches from the detergents and pesticides that were used, the bright lights and the over stimuli, nausea followed if he stayed too long.

All this hadn't been that bad twenty years ago, he remembered. Well, shops had changed a lot, their squandering and ideas of consumption disgusted him. People could not need 751 different breakfast cereals, that were shipped from all over the world, no matter how encumbering that was for environment.

Needing things… there were _so_ few things one needs…. so few, like a single companion/friend… or living in a specific flat…

What to eat was not important, or what was on the telly or if one had all limbs, or… so many things were not important at all.

And now, he had damaged the single and most important thing. John.

John was hurt, by him… too much.

John was angry with him… too much to forgive him. Sherlock could feel his anger lingering in the flat, the anger would never go away again, no matter how much Mrs Hudson would clean, it would stay… John's hurt would stay.

How could he have been so dumb to miss the option that this could happen?

Mycroft had told him it was a bad idea to exclude John from the plan… Sherlock had thought it would all be fine the moment he returned.

…But it wasn't.

What had gone so horribly wrong?

Where had he miscalculated?…. But John had forgiven him…. at least he had said it, but why was he still so angry then? John had stated those were _different_ things but Sherlock could not understand or see the difference… unforgiving and angry looked the same when they were with John.

Sherlock could feel the hurt seeping out of his former flatmate and it caused him to feel 'not good'. It felt like needing to frown all the time, getting a bad pressure in the head and wanting… something… maybe scream or something… No… it just felt like _something_ had build up and needed out, he doubted screaming would help… just pressure, uneasiness. Most likely it was hurt, too. So the damage he had done to John caused himself to hurt because he sensed the other man's hurt whenever they were together… ricochet-chain-reaction.

He probably deserved to be miserable, then.

He reached the store and took a basket.

The store had changed. Things were in different places. He knew why shops did that, but hated it. Such a waste of everyone's time!

He deserved to hurt… Therefore he ignored the shelves with the painkillers and headed for the beverage section.

John had alleged that Sherlock wouldn't have grieved for him if positions were changed and Sherlock thought that John was dead, in a heated moment shortly after his return. The doctor had asked him how he'd feel in that situation and asked if he knew how it felt to miss someone so desperately one stopped to want to go on himself.

Sherlock knew exactly how that felt. All that had kept him alive these past two years was that he knew that this way he was keeping John safe and as soon as his 'job' was done he could safely come back and everything would be good. They'd continue their friendship, solve cases and live with Mrs Hudson… but all that was kind of gone or rotten now.

When the absence of any company - a factor, which he had considered as unimportant - had paralysed him for days, he had realised he needed _John's_ presence… He had killed the thoughts by telling himself that the better he worked the sooner he'd get that company back.

Now he was back, but that paralysing feeling was still there, returned with a vengeance, stabbing him in the back… Because John was rejecting him?

When he thought he'd go mad with the pain of being beaten and from standing up for days on end, he had thought of John and Baker Street to gather the will to not just give up.

And now he was back and it should be all good and back to normal, but nothing was, the world was upside down. He felt alien in his own flat and John was not there… not usually. He had never felt this… alone and deserted. It was something new he had learned during the past years. It still stunned him that is was even possible. He had been alone all his adult life, why was this so hard?

This must be how John had felt after his suicide… he had endured it for two years. He himself deserved to hurt now, John's misery ricocheted. Maybe that would bring balance back to the universe… that it all hit him back, too.

Making the decision to fake his death had strained him more than any other decision before in his life… that should have made him pause and ask himself why, but he believed it was the strain of the case. He had believed it was the most straining thing in his life until he _was_ in fact in hiding.

Whenever he was sure it couldn't get worse, it would do exactly that. No matter how bad things were, they could get _far_ worse… He had expected the whole thing to be difficult, but he hadn't thought it would have such an impact on him… and far worse… on John.

He had retrieved John's PTSD.

Very not good!

He should definitely have seen that coming! So dumb, so mean… He was bad company.

So often he had wondered why John stuck to him, no one else bothered to waste time with him, but now he knew he had no right to even hope John would in the future.

If this was the price for keeping John save - it was surely not what Sherlock had expected - but the main goal was reached.

Had Moriarty meant _that_ with 'burning out his heart'… surely something felt burnt inside him, destroyed and crinkled.

"Mister?"

Someone tapped his arm.

He blinked, disoriented. The bright light hit his eyes and made him wince.

A young man was in front of him, dressed like someone who restocked the shelves.

"Are you alright?"

"Of course. Why?"

"You're standing there on that exact spot for almost fifteen minutes, and you look… not good. Do you need help?"

Scottish accent, seventeen, maybe sixteen and a few months… saves money… to buy… a small moped… He felt… dreadful… and dizzy.

"I'm not in need of assistance."

Not holding onto a shelf was hard work. When he turned away and headed back for the area with medical supplies, he felt himself slightly weaving. He should pay more attention not to get lost in his thoughts while out shopping. He had experienced these 'deep though spells' on several occasions in the past weeks, musing on dark thoughts.

When standing in front of the over the counter medication he refused to buy any and turned away again, headed to the beer-racks.

Several minutes later he felt his thoughts started heading towards sinister grounds again, he shook his head to shake them off.

Force them away!

He bought several bottles of two different brands of beer and when waiting at the conveyer belt he wondered how often John had stood here in the past getting their groceries. John had done so much for the both of them and for their cases… Had taken care of so many things. Now, that he didn't do them any longer and they didn't happen and Mrs Hudson told him John had done that in the past… now he realised how much his flatmate had done in fact. He had thought things had just happened. Normal people sometimes said that you only learn the value of something when it's gone. He was now guilty of that. He _had_ underestimated how good John was for him and how he'd miss him on his hiatus.

During his 'hunt', the feeling of missing had grown into nausea several times, made him want to curl in on himself and never get up again. New uneasy feeling. Now, it was supposed to be over, but things had gotten worse when John rejected him…

This had shaken Sherlock and he was angry with himself for his mind to betray him with this emotional sensations, chemical defect… He wanted it to stop… He couldn't deal with what he couldn't understand.

He had thrown up several times due to 'unknown distress'. In between operations, when the had the opportunity to communicate, Sherlock had urged Mycroft repeatedly to tell him how John was. Mycroft had tried to evade the topic, but had finally told him John was bad, and that he sat on Sherlock's bed, with his gun and the violin for hours, repeatedly.

As soon as they had fled Serbia and Sherlock was back in London, he had insisted to see the footage of John, but his brother had refused to show him.

Finally Sherlock had managed to get a hold on it, sneaked into Mycroft's private quarters, still recovering and out of his mind with sedatives and painkillers. He had… he didn't want to remember that day… Mycroft had caught him in the act - at least after five hours of watching the recordings, but Sherlock had seen enough, everything was a blur after Mycroft had yelled at him for using his top secret laptop.

He vaguely remembered vomiting on the antique carpet and foreign hands touching him before he blacked out.

The second time he was sick with distress was during his first night at Baker Street, after Greg and Mrs Hudson had welcomed him… and John had punched him… He had spend half the night in front of the toilet and asked himself if he had ever felt this miserable in his whole life.

He refused to believe his state of mind made his body sick, was sure it must be a bug.

When he saved John from the fire the close call had made him… agitated. He then wondered if it was psychological, but since he failed totally to point out what exactly was getting to him so much he doubted it.

Finally he assumed it was the whole of the situation that stressed his transport. It had happened mostly after his return. He hadn't eaten a lot after that.

By now was quite sure it must be a psychological thing. Maybe his disgusting imprecise thinking was also a result of a light depressive episode?

"Excuse me, you need to pay," someone dragged him back into his body. The tone was resentful and when Sherlock resurfaced in reality, a large woman stood before him, she looked resentful, she sounded resentful, even venomous. Her pink and yellow jacket made his eyes hurt even more than all the advertisement.

The shop assistant had registered all his items and waited for him to pay with a kind smile, though Sherlock could see she was stressed and had a hard time keeping up the smile.

Lately he was slightly more successful in getting emotional states right, at least those of persons that were not himself. Their feelings were clearer written on their faces, or had he just learned to read them better? Had the world changed or had he gained a new perspective/insight?

He took out the credit card and held it out, the woman took it.

"You need some bags?"

"Eh, bags?"

"To carry your beer home."

"Yes… yes, of course.. please."

She handed him three plastic bags.

He stared at them.

He was supposed to put the stuff inside, wasn't he?

He did, and felt ridiculous for having asked himself the last question.

Was he really this messed up? His excursion into his thoughts were hindering concentration on worldly things.

A few moments later he left the store, three heavy plastic shopping bags in his hands.

It was quite ungraceful to carry them.

He had walked three minutes when he realised he hurt…. his back hurt.

Exhaustion.

Maybe try to sleep tonight… but it was excruciating to try it. Whenever he drifted off to sleep he jerked awake in panic… Panic, dreadful concept.

They had deprived him of sleep in the dungeon and whenever he drifted off they had punished him for that. Sleep deprivation was a common torture method, he knew that. It was effective and wore him down fast… To feel torture and to know about torture was quite a difference. He still didn't dare to fall asleep, anxious what _they_ would do then to wake him.

He had fallen asleep sometimes during the past two weeks, but it was a terrible experience. Sleep had never come easy, but now starting to drift caused… panic?

Yes, it was panic. It felt like in Baskerville, like knowing something bad would happen to John.

Were John's panic attacks like this?

If they _were,_ he had to admit John was by far even stronger than he had conceded him to be. He always knew John was resilient, but to go through this constantly made him realised how bad PTSD must be.

He had also had some mild flashbacks in the past two weeks. Not nice, quite disorienting, unsettling. The sensation was similar to being dragged into a miserable room in the mind palace and having to find the way back to reality while the palace was under artillery bombardment.

The palace had been damaged during his hiatus, especially in Serbia. There were areas still smouldering and smelling of burned wood. He tried to avoid them.

It would take time to kill the last small fires and clear out the rubbish and the empty missile shells sometime, but not now. Some areas seemed to have been even drained of oxygen and were completely impassable, he felt close to passing out when wandering in them. He hoped he wouldn't need them soon. Sometimes some floors shook with the memory of the torturer's actions, like the aftershocks of an earthquake.

He slipped into his mind palace far more often than usual and often totally unintentionally, the fact was not new, but the frequency was, before the fall it had seldom happened of it's own. Mild flashbacks were normal after difficult events, they would go away soon.

The pain in his back grew more intense and forced his mind back into his aching transport, which was currently on autopilot and walking back to 221b in the dark. He had only done half the way and it would definitely be better to watch his way now. London at night was still not really the safest place to be. Awareness of safety had changed, too, nothing felt as safe as it had before. Never let your guard down, always watch your back… He had done that in the past, but now it was with more anticipation of bad events lurking in the dark. It was an unsettling sensation.

He went on, the bags getting heavier with every step.

 

Finally, after what felt like hours, he arrived at home and put the bags, as they were, into the fridge. He was tired and his skin was not glad about what he was wearing, so he changed into the most comfortable pyjama he had and laid down on top of his duvet.

But as expected, when he drifted of, the pain of a whip on his back made him gasp and multiplied his agony.

Ignore it, just go to a safe place in the palace.

After he had been woken up six or seven times he was drenched in sweat and nauseous. He decided to abandon the idea of sleep and went to lie on the sofa to watch some telly.

 

 

 


	9. Sunday evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Greg meet at a pub to have a pint, topics turns out to be more intense than planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gattis or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

 

**Sunday evening – Lestrade's favourite pub**

 

"How are you two doing?"

"Honestly?… I really don't know… He's… different."

"Different as in _bad_ or different as in _changed_?"

"Both… He' hiding something… no, not singular, several things. I wonder if he's sick or something, he _is_ bad, stiff, awfully skinny, nightmares, closed up."

"Uh," Lestrade winced.

"You know anything more than I do?"

"Sorry, mate, Sherlock and I didn't really had time to talk yet. The night he came back the only thing we talked about was the terrorist threat; which was complete news to me. He mentioned he had been away destroying Moriarty's net and that was it… Didn't even mention if he was successful. Maybe you should give Mycroft a visit."

"He'd consider that as betrayal. Not an option."

"Right. What about Molly?"

"Maybe. Did you know she knew he wasn't dead from the beginning?" John took another sip from his beer.

"What? Seriously?!"

"She and Mycroft and several of his homeless network."

"Blimey."

"He's still so distant… I wonder if he has doubts that the Moriarty thing is definitely over."

"I must say I myself still have problems believing Sherlock is not dead, wonder how you are with that topic."

"I… to be honest… I also still don't dare to believe it fully. I'm afraid I'll wake up and it's all been a nice dream. I'm afraid… I'll wake up… and he is still dead."

"He might feel the same."

"Or he might want to be left alone… at least he behaves like that quite often."

"Maybe he doesn't want to interfere with your… future wife; but, no, Sherlock wouldn't be that respectful."

"Or maybe he is kind of jealous?"

Lestrade opened his eyes wide.

"No, no!… In a perfectly neutral way I mean!" John hurried to say, "I think I'm still the only close relationship to another human being he ever had… has."

"Yeah, you are… He wants you back and you have moved on… I see the problem."

"You do?… Gosh, is it that obvious?… I hate to do this to him… but he should've told me he wasn't dead… Maybe I wouldn't have moved on like this then… I would've stayed in the flat for example… but it hurt so much… so damn… much" John's voice broke.

"Still does, obviously," Greg rubbed the other man's upper arm in sympathy.

John lowered his head and breathed deeply a few times.

"God, sorry… I didn't know this is still getting at you so much," Lestrade was bewildered with John's painstaking suppressed emotions.

The former soldier managed to suppress his sorrow and relaxed his face before he raised his head again.

"Has been better before. All stirred up because of his return. Alcohol was probably not the best of ideas… Exaggerating things a bit, I fear."

"You want to go home?" Lestrade offered.

"Not yet, drink up without haste." John tossed down the last of his second beer, Lestrade's second was still half full.

"Just in case you need some space, you're welcome at my flat, there's an extra bedroom."

"Thanks."

"Staying in the flat is still difficult for you."

"I didn't expect it to be _this_ difficult… I stayed during the terrorist case once… but," John hesitated, "…it was different then. Maybe all the stuff needed to sink in… Er, I have a question: he really went on cases with Molly?"

"He did because you… refused?"

"I did?"

"He said you were out of the picture."

"I wasn't exactly showing him I was glad he was back… tried to choke him when he interrupted me making a proposal to Mary. Half an hour later I knocked him out of a chair… and another half hour later I punched him… It bled a lot."

"Uh! So, he interpreted that as refusing him."

"I was not refusing him… I was just so angry."

"He didn't get that."

"You're probably right, but all I tried to make it right… he didn't understand… When I came back the next day to tell him I was sorry I was taken hostage by… whoever, and was put in that bonfire," John paused, "His actions are… He seems kind of lost. Poking in the dark in the hope to do something emotionally right for _me,_ trying to fix this… I don't know how to react… Did he tell you Moriarty threatened to kill me, Mrs Hudson and _you_?… That he faked his death because of the three of us?… At least that much I got out of him. Moriarty had snipers on all of us, waiting for the order."

"What?" Lestrade looked really shocked, "No shit?" he buried his forehead in his left hand. "No, hell, he didn't, tell me I mean. My god…"

They sat silent for several minutes, Lestrade shaking his head in disbelief. He suddenly looked years older and a bit pale about this detail.

"So, why not tell us?"

"Well, that's one reason why I punched him, I guess. Because he didn't tell me what was going on."

"Oh, Christ… Must have been quite a burden he carried there."

John puckered his lips and Greg sensed his distress and changed directions.

"How's Mary with all of this?"

"Quite understanding… to my - _our_ \- great luck. She told me she liked him after he had interrupted my proposal. How many woman do you know would take that without throwing a fit? She realised who he was before he had finished his third sentence. I was so shocked, I couldn't breathe and I… god… I…. thought I…" The memory of the events once more stole John's air and he took some deep breaths, "She… she's great, not jealous, understanding… seems she kind of adopted him. Hope it'll stay this way. I wouldn't survive if they hated each other or would start to compete. She understands him… encourages me to restore the friendship. She thinks he is his-version-of-being-deserted by _me_."

Lestrade giggled, "Understands him… well, that's…"

"Yeah, sometimes I wonder if I had a harder time learning how he ticks than she has, she just knows some things. I think you were right the other day, he _is_ depressed."

"We better keep him busy then, and show him we're still fond of him," Greg muttered as if talking about his six year old kid. "I will try to involve him in as much of the investigation work as possible."

"Be prepared to be told to be incompetent frequently, his mood is difficult."

"I am, I guess it's part of our interaction, me to be stupid, I mean."

"Scrap of comfort to know I'm not the only one he calls stupid?" John tried a lame joke.

"Of course, it's his version of… whatever… If he didn't want us around, he wouldn't interact with us."

"Though, now that I think about it, he's surprisingly patient and kind since his return, with me at least."

"He was pretty patient with me, too. I was scratching my head about it internally."

"Oh?" John raised his eyebrows, "God, I wonder if this is what Mycroft feels like…"

"Parenting him?"

Another long pause where both of them hung on to their thoughts.

"Oh, did I tell you I met his parents?" John said after another minute.

"Really? What are they like?"

"Quite normal people, I'd never have guessed if he hadn't said who they were, talking about normal daily things like searching for glasses and going out to the theatre."

"Did you talk to them?"

"No, he threw them out the moment I came back after the bonfire… More like kicked them out, kind of rude, actually."

"Because you arrived?"

"Think so, they were in the middle of some nonsense conversation. I had never seen them before. No picture, no nothing."

"Well… Maybe I'll meet them some day."

"When I marry her I'll invent them to the wedding," John uttered a spontaneous and keen idea.

"What?"

"Of course I would invite the parents of my best friend to my wedding, wouldn't I?"

"Don't know, depends on how big you're planning it. How big is Mary's family?"

"No family. She's an orphan."

"Oh, sorry to hear that," Greg drank the last of his beer, "You want to go home?… eh, to Baker Street I mean?"

"Yeah," John answered.

Greg looked him into the eyes for a moment. John looked exhausted and worried.

"Okay."

They left the pub and said their goodbyes, John took the tube to get back to Baker Street.

 

Sherlock was experimenting when he came home and John decided to go to bed, he was too tired to do anything else. The beer had made him drowsy and he planned to use it and sleep.

"Night, Sherlock," he greeted after coming out of the bathroom.

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock answered. John suppressed a giggle, wondering if Sherlock had ever watched 'The Waltons.'

 

At around three o'clock John woke up, he wondered what had waken him, he needed to pee.

When he came down the stairs he heard Sherlock mutter in the living room.

Had his friend experimented the whole time?

Was he talking to him? Had he kept that habit for the past years, talking to him even though John was not there? Had it ever mattered if John was there or not?

Don't go there! John tried to stop his train of sleepy thoughts, the day had been arduous enough.

John went directly into the kitchen and then to the bathroom, without entering the living room.

When he came out again he heard Sherlock moan.

This made him stop in his tracks.

Sherlock would _not_ do that while he as talking, unaware or not. Not in this way.

What was happening?

The chances that Sherlock had not heard him come down the stairs were minute, the sounds of the second and third step were not exactly easy to miss. He had seldom heard Sherlock made similar noises, except when… he was hurt, or half asleep and in real pain.

 

John entered the living room, remembering Sherlock's reaction to being disturbed his sleep the other morning. Therefore he proceeded with caution this time, taking in the situation first.

Sherlock was on the sofa, sweating, pale, breathing fast… and his jaw was clenched. He was obviously asleep.

Was he having a nightmare? John just stood there for a moment, observing. He had only once or twice seen Sherlock dream before. This was spooky.

Sherlock's breathing sped up.

"No…" he more breathed than spoke the word.

John was a bit lost at what to do.

Wake him carefully? How? Sherlock was obviously not used to someone being present when sleeping, or he associated it with something negative?

Before John had the chance to decide how to proceed Sherlock twitched and moved on the sofa, his hands flailing.

"John, no…" his voice sounded desperate and clear now.

Had that woke him before? Sherlock calling out his name?

He stepped back into the door between the kitchen and the living room. When Sherlock called out for him once more, now in a low voice, he answered.

"I'm here Sherlock. Nothing to worry," he said from the safe distance.

"Hmmnn," Sherlock groaned, "Thissis useless, I won'tell you..."

What was the detective dreaming about? And who was he talking to?

"Sherlock, who are you talking to?… Who's there?" he asked.

But Sherlock didn't hear him, he had not really expected him to do so. Sherlock continued to mumble and somewhere in between John wondered if he had heard Mycroft's name. The agitation in Sherlock's voice rose a few seconds later and John decided he needed to get Sherlock out of it. This was not good.

"Sherlock! Wake up!" John spoke loud and calm while still keeping his distance.

His friend didn't react at first, but then his uncoordinated movements stilled. John hoped that this meant he was at least getting out of the dream.

He put on the kettle and cleared some space on the counter, being as noisy with it as possible, moving cutlery and china around, then returned to the doorframe.

Sherlock was twitching slightly, still in sleep.

He had guessed that the last two years had been hard, Moriarty was clever and brutal and it must have been a lot of brainwork and rough action to try to bring that net down. He wondered if it had been so rough that Sherlock didn't even want to remember it and wasn't telling him therefore. Usually he'd have thought Sherlock would boast about every single glorious detail and every genius thought he had used to bring the network down.

But there was nothing like that since the initial try at the second restaurant, where John had told him he wasn't interested. Sherlock didn't brag any longer at all and he didn't even mention the events. This was not like the Sherlock John knew.

Sherlock winced once more.

"Sherlock, wake up!" John spoke again and loud.

This time Sherlock flinched and five seconds later blinked and scanned the room.

John just stood there and watched him, trying to figure out what was going on.

The consultant needed about thirty seconds until his gaze found John, who had not moved. When their eyes met John could see Sherlock was uneasy with this. John further realised he was well aware he was having bad dreams and he was not at all happy that the doctor had witnessed one… and Sherlock knew what he had just dreamt about.

"What did you dream about?" John stepped into the breach.

"Nothing important."

Interesting, he didn't deny to have dreamt at all.

Sherlock stood up and headed for the kitchen, but found the kettle was already switched on, after a moment of irritation he fetched the teabags, still busy blinking the sleep away, a distraction probably.

John once more observed how stiff his movements were, even clumsy.

"You're okay?"

"I'm fine, please stop this," Sherlock was clearly getting irritated.

John decided to drop it for now, "Make two please."

"Two for you, or one for me and one for you?"

"One for me," John answered, at least this was typically Sherlock, asking the obvious an average person would just do… but Sherlock's communication was too precise for that, at least this was still the same.

Sherlock prepared the tea, but then headed for the living room with his cup in his hands, leaving John's on the counter. The doctor had to go get it, this was clearly not an invitation for further talk, more a leave-me-alone-message.

John took the mug and headed for the dinner-table. He sat down and started reading yesterday's paper, demonstratively ignoring Sherlock. A few years ago showing he wasn't interested had a high chance to make the man talking of his own.

No such luck this time.

Sherlock was busy with his phone for the next half hour, his fingers moving quite slow over the keys, John noticed.

Finally Sherlock turned around on the sofa, his back to John, and stopped moving.

Was he trying to sleep?

John decided this was clearly the sign for him to return to his bedroom and get some more sleep, which he did.

 

 


	10. Monday – The flat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock behaves odd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gattis or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

Monday morning John had to work.

When he got up Sherlock was already pondering over the facts and data that were spread all over the floor. The nice thing was John found tea ready and waiting for him.

When the doctor went to get some milk and opened the fridge door he saw three large shopping bags inside. Stuffed in as they were.

He frowned. Sherlock had _really_ been shopping, it had not been an excuse for something else.

He peered inside one of the plastic bags, at least six large bottles of beer, different brands; he stared at them, a bit dumbstruck.

Maybe Sherlock needed them for an experiment?

John rummaged through all bags and found three more bottles of beer and finally: the milk. Sherlock had _not_ forgotten it, that was not a first but hadn't happened often.

John realised that comparing 'back then' with 'now' was probably not the best way to help them both get better.

It just happened, but he'd try to stop that now… except for good things, maybe… like Sherlock remembered his needs!

On his way out he passed the living room, Sherlock's posture was broadcasting frustration and that he was kind of stuck. John assumed it was better not to ask and headed for the underground station.

.

When John came home in the afternoon Sherlock had not changed, nothing hinted he had eaten and he looked as if falling asleep on his feet could not take much longer.

The consultant had been talking to himself when John came up the stairs but stopped abruptly when he heard John.

"Oh, good, I need some explanations concerning human nature."

"Oh, alright," John agreed while getting out of his jacket and putting on the kettle. "What about I make Lasagne for dinner?"

"Not hungry."

"Yes you are."

"I am not!"

"I answer your questions about human nature when you eat dinner with me," John extorted him, more joking than making a real threat, it should have been clear because he grinned at his former flatmate.

"I don't like being blackmailed. I might call Molly and ask her if you…"

"It was kind of a joke, Sherlock. I just wanted you to eat, you look terrible. You need some sustenance… and sleep probably."

"I can't sleep."

"But you can eat, so do me the favour. Lasagne is a lot of work and I don't want to do it for nothing."

"Why don't we order something?"

"You're more in the mood for something else?" John raised his eyebrows.

"Chinese."

"Okay."

Of course, John did the call and while they waited for the food he went to his room and slipped into some more comfortable clothes.

When he came back down Sherlock had lined up the pictures of the victims - that showed how they were found - in a neat row, staring at them.

"What do they all have in common?"

"Are you asking me or just thinking out loud?"

"I already figured out 179 things they have in common, and 311 they don't. Yes, of course I'm asking you," Sherlock was speaking as fast as usual when he was explaining his deductions, John wondered once more how anyone could speak so clearly so fast.

"To repeat the obvious?" John stepped closer to the other man and considered the printouts with him.

"Nope, to have an social, interactive, normal-person's point of view... or a doctor's, preferably all of those, one at a time."

"Okay… Why don't you go have a shower in the meantime?"

"Do I need to?" Sherlock asked neutrally, no whining, no irritation, no anger.

"Yes."

Sherlock smelled unshowered, but there was also a sweet undertone in the scent that made John uneasy, though he couldn't sift it out yet.

"Okay, thanks for the hint… I missed your input the last two years, and my senses missed your presence… It's quite… easing to have it back."

The detective scuffled out of the room. His tone had been flat through the whole interaction, not impatient, not unnerved, just monotone, even his badly put on and exaggerated mimic was not there, had seldom been there the past days.

The last statement was quite a surprise. John gazed after him, that was a compliment, an appreciation of his presence, actually. He was a bit stunned with that emotionless emotional declaration.

Sherlock vanished into the bathroom and two minutes later the shower was turned on. His friend seemed to dislike showering nowadays.

Or did he just forget? Sign of depression, John mused, the last comment was even more nice and caring with this background information.

John stood and stared into space for a minute, Sherlock had actually been kind… again… and had underlined he wanted him here.

While he watched the pictures, he got sidetracked by his hunger and started clearing the table so that they could have dinner.

He transferred the fact sheets to the sofa, in the exact arrangement that they had on the table so he'd be able to put them back later. He knew Sherlock would probably throw a fit, but the kitchen table was still contaminated with Sherlock's latest experiments… and he would definitely not touch those.

After he had switched on the telly to see some news he continued to prepare the table for dinner. When he was finished he texted Mary, asking her how her day was. They texted several times a day and today was no difference. He'd call her before going to bed, as usual.

Some time later Sherlock came out of his room, he was clean shaven and looked as if he had taken extra care to clean. He wore a fresh dressing gown, and fresh pyjamas, and socks… but no shoes. John frowned, it was November and the wooden floor was cold.

For a moment Sherlock stared at the relocated evidence material and John feared he might get a grotty comment for that, but Sherlock just changed his position and continued to stare at it.

"What could possibly be attractive about being vulnerable?"

"Sorry?" John wasn't keeping up.

"What do you think all the victims had in common the moment they died?"

"They looked as if relaxing at home."

"And what are you when you do that?" Sherlock wanted to know.

"Relaxing? Trusting nothing would happen to you?"

"This is equivalent to vulnerable," Sherlock stated.

"No it's not."

"What?"

"Actually, I think it's quite the opposite. They trust they are safe, therefore they can relax."

"But relaxing makes one vulnerable," Sherlock stated.

"Not really. To be vulnerable means there's something… threatening or using that state for… uh, the presence of someone taking advantage of the slackened and secure state I guess."

"So relaxing does _not_ make one vulnerable?"

John frowned. This had an odd undertone.

"Sherlock, you're just giving the impression the term is… not… Your definition of it might be faulty at some aspects…" John muttered hesitantly. "… and no, relaxing is not making you vulnerable… I mean, maybe _you_ , but not the average person. They relax quite frequently, especially around people they like."

"Then if something is vulnerable or not depends on the intentions and the quality of the people around."

"Yes. Let's try this different. Eh, when Irene injected you with the drug… I presume that would make one feel vulnerable... feeling control slip away… losing control over your body, not being able to escape."

"But I knew she just wanted to get away with the phone…"

"…you must have felt exposed somehow…"

"No, your were there…"

John blinked, was this… holy shit, it was!

"Are you saying you didn't panic because you knew I was there and it made you feel safe?"

"I don't panic!" Sherlock stated, a bit sulky.

John noted he had not objected to the first statement.

"Oh yes, you did in Baskerville… There you might have felt vulnerable… that might be a good comparison."

"I panicked… a bit."

"No, Sherlock, be honest with yourself… by your standards you panicked _a lot_."

"Okay, I panicked a lot… but there – also – you were present and provided a certain degree of…"

John raised his eyebrows and simultaneously stroked his left briefly over his mouth to hide his grin. The other man had really admitted two incredible things in one sentence… even repeated them without even sounding too much uneasy with it.

"So being vulnerable goes together with being afraid?"

"Sometimes."

"But that is the opposite of relaxed," Sherlock stated, "Maybe they thought their ordeal was over and they assumed the assailant had left and therefore relaxed?"

"Like in: he told them he was going to let them life and that he'd just give them one more dose to make sure they'd not alarm the police immeditately?… Possible, but that would be really cruel."

"And heighten their violable state even more…"

"Definitely. I mean making them unable to move is already vicious… and bringing them back home, raising their hopes. Well, they might look peaceful and relaxed, but the amount of…" John wandered over to the table and pulled a sheet from a heap of papers.

"Here… High levels of stress hormones on all victims."

"I know. Why do you think they were brought back home and had not been there the whole time?"

"You deduced that, don't you remember?"

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did, at the crime scene on Friday. You said the male victim arrived home probably 14 hours before his death, but he had been missing for seven days, logical assumption: he was not home the other six and a half days."

"Fourteen hours are not half a day."

John rolled his eyes but his mood changed into worrying fast.

Was Sherlock really not remembering?

"Are you making fun of me?"

The doorbell rang and Sherlock escaped the conversation by volunteering to get the food.

.

They ate, John tried to keep the conversation light but intended to poke a bit further later.

Sherlock actually ate all his dinner and even tried the soup John left because he was full.

They returned to the case without clearing the table.

John summarised, "So, the distance between the first and the second murder were nine days, the same time between victim two and three… looks like a pattern. If he keeps his pattern he already has victim number four in his fangs since Wednesday or Thursday. Lestrade went through all the missing person's files, we saw two of the flat's of those missing persons ourselves and Scotland Yard installed surveillance equipment in three more flats."

"Nothing! This can't be! Why can't I find anything?! There must be something," Sherlock sounded quite angry with himself suddenly. Bitter and self-loathing about failing to come to helpful conclusions.

The past week had been a total failure when it came to solving this case. It was a tenacious struggle for finding anything at all, John had wondered if the detective's bad constitution had anything to do with it or if this was really en extremely complex case, even for a genius mind.

"Sherlock?" John spoke in a calming voice, "The only thing you can do is work on it, there's nothing more you can do."

John was a bit surprised with himself. Two years ago he had yelled at the man, suggesting that he didn't care and now he accepted he seemed distressed?

Well it didn't mean Sherlock cared about the victims, he might be only angry with being unsuccessful.

"I could be less blind for starters!" Sherlock spit, "Someone incarcerated might be hoping for someone to come to their help!"

So much for not caring for the victim. John smiled bitterly, Sherlock cared - in his very own way - and not in a sentimental or overly empathetic way, but he did care, and it was surprisingly close to the surface these days.

"Sherlock, you're tired, exhausted and not well, maybe a good night's sleep and a good meal will do you good. The latter we already did. Go to bed, sleep, and tomorrow we'll give it a new fresh start."

"No!" Sherlock's voice was hard and stubborn.

"Collapsing from exhaustion will do no one any good."

"I am fine!" Sherlock griped.

"The hell you are!" John's tone was hard now, too.

"Sorry," Sherlock mumbled, trotting into the kitchen.

"For what?" John couldn't decide if he was more perplexed with the sudden change to a oddly docile tone or the fact that Sherlock excused for his behaviour.

"You're right I'm tired."

John narrowed his eyes, following the other man.

This was not normal… probably Sherlock tried to agree to a lesser evil to hide a bigger one.

"What's up, what aren't you telling me?"

Sherlock put on the kettle and prepared two mugs for tea.

"I tired, that's all. Now, I said it, so back off," Sherlock escaped into the bathroom and John grumbled about that blunt exit. Sherlock knew the doctor wouldn't follow him in there.

Three minutes later he came back, finished preparing the tea and returned to the living room, where John sat at his laptop reading his mail.

Sherlock handed him a cup.

"So, the original question about human nature should be: Why is the assailant so cruel? What is attracting him? What does he want to feel? Is there an attraction in vulnerability?"

"What?" John asked, not sure where Sherlock was heading.

"Isn't there a version of sexuality that has being vulnerable as the main aspect?"

"Maybe. If I got the concept right, BDSM works _with_ that aspect, but it's also about absolute trust and the chemical and emotional high the human body can produce with the right amount of pain… among tons of other things, loads of psychological stuff, too. But I'm not an expert, my knowledge is superficial… I don't see any connection to this."

"Right, there was not the slightest hint that this is in any way sexual in nature," Sherlock agreed, "At least not in an open or in a carried-out-on-the-victim-way. So the kidnapped persons were mostly afraid to die, not to be assaulted physically."

"How would they know? They were afraid, stressed, desperate and probably even close to loosing their minds with the distress. They didn't _know_ if they were gonna live or would be assaulted… or hurt or whatever."

"Could you do me a favour and try to describe how that feels like?" Sherlock wanted to know.

John hesitated.

Was Sherlock his insensible self or trying to gather special information?

He wasn't sure if he wanted to be angry or to accomplish Sherlock's wish for a description. He turned his gaze away from the evidence and looked up into the other man's eyes… for the first time in minutes. What he saw there caused him quite a headache.

Sherlock was looking to the ground, not a the evidence. His eyes were dark and… absent, leaking some unknown distress.

John was distracted from the request, he stepped closer and reached for Sherlock's upper arm, something that cried for some sort of comfort was written all over his posture. The detective blinked and three seconds after John had made contact he stepped back and freed himself from the gentle grip.

He had needed _three_ bloody seconds for that reaction.

"I don't… Just describe it for me."

"Okay, sorry… Er…. imagine you're restrained and not able to get away and someone is doing things to you don't want and you can't stop him… Can you imagine how that feels? Probably not, you always have a plan B and an escape plan carefully laid out… I felt kind of like that at the pool… with Moriarty… I also felt like that in that bonfire. Not nice… to be at the mercy of someone who doesn't think your life is worth a shit and no chance to get free… Quite scary."

John looked up at Sherlock who had been standing a step next to him, not moving. With a bit of a shock John saw the colour draining from Sherlock's face.

"Sherlock?" John said in a warm voice, stepping closer again, "Hey?"

His former flatmate stared ahead into space, not reacting, not moving, barely breathing.

"Sherlock? Snap out of it."

This was not good. John reached for Sherlock's wrist to feel his pulse, but the moment their skin made contact Sherlock sucked in air in surprise and jerked back, almost tripped over his own feet. John followed the movement and tried to prevent him from falling, but Sherlock caught himself and raised his hands so John wouldn't try to touch him.

They both stood there staring at each other in stunned silence, both upset and taken-aback, unsure of what to do next.

"I'm tired I will go to bed," Sherlock turned to go.

"Sherlock, talk to me," John stepped after him but knew better than to touch him.

"You said I need sleep, I agree, isn't that what you wanted?" Sherlock sounded beaten and in fact on the end of his tether.

John didn't know what to say.

"Okay, good night," Sherlock vanished into his room.

John stared after him.

This could not go on like this! Something was _so_ wrong with all this. John would find out!

He sat down on the table and answered another mail, listening to the sounds from Sherlock's room with one ear.

Was the man really sleeping or pondering on his bed now?

Half an hour later he went upstairs.

He called Mary and he was glad she listened to all the stuff that bothered him.

It took a long time for sleep to find him.

 

 


	11. Monday night – Sherlock's room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gattis or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

Sherlock entered his bedroom and carefully lowered himself on the bed, laying on his side.

He felt dreadful.

His back hurt and the pain was debilitating… his head hurt, too - from the leaden tiredness that was disabling his ability to think and act properly.

He had tried to sleep in the early afternoon, but once more bad dreams had awoken him and when they had reached a level where he started to feel nauseous he had abandoned the idea to try to sleep.

He was alone, Mrs Hudson and John not there. Their absence made him uneasy. He realised he wanted to be where John was, needed to make sure he was safe, which was ridiculous.

Unsettling new routine that one, popped up every other five minutes, asking the doctor's current position, if John was safe and… it even checked if Sherlock had done anything 'not-nice' that might be the reason the doctor had left.

Sherlock tried to kill the process, not understanding where it had come from and what it might be good for, but it wasn't impressed by the deletion and returned.

This was _his_ mind, why wasn't it listening to his orders?

He tried to distract himself and think about the case, aware that someone might be already in the hands of the serial killer and was about to be murdered.

The thought had haunted him.

He couldn't concentrate, the mind palace was in disorder.

When he searched for information on the case and tried to sort through what they had gathered, he frequently stumbled into various kinds of disarray that diverted him… or messed up his memories of his observations.

It was like something had broken into the palace… or like a Trojan, had brought in chaos and disorder, a little monster from a child's story that messed up the rooms when no one was looking.

The moment that comparison materialised in his mind he wondered if he honestly was going insane.

Maybe he was, a few minutes ago… something had happened when John described what would make one feel vulnerable and when he had experienced it. What he then had experienced when he remembered came very close to panic.

As if John knew how things had been during his captivity in Serbia… he had described all aspects.

Had he spoken to Mycroft? Did John know?

A dark green spark of pain pushed his thoughts to the back of his mind with cruel intensity. John would make him swallow painkillers if he knew he was in this level of pain… or would cause some more pain by punching him again.

He deserved to be punched, deserved to experience the hurt… but for now it was getting a bit too much and he granted himself to mentally try to dim his pain perception for a bit.

He was tired, wanted to sleep… but the victim might die if he took his time to sleep, it was not good to sleep therefore, wasn't it?

John would know, he always knew what was good and what wasn't.

But did he deserve that John taught him such things? He knew he had damaged their friendship… another setback.

 _He_ had caused it.

By denial, by ignoring important facts.

He had denied that John would get severely hurt by this, refused to believe this might cause another PTSD episode, hadn't considered how much grief would harm his friend… and he even had to admit it had damaged himself more than anything ever had in his life.

He felt… wounded.

Harmed… by himself, by Moriarty, by his inability to bury the memories of the torture.

Was _this_ 'feeling vulnerable'?

Had he stumbled into this new ugly perception?

Had it been here before John had described it or was knowing about it causing it?

He _had_ a mild panic attack, he knew the feeling since Baskerville, and it had felt a lot like back there, though totally different.

John had noted something was going on, but at least not that he had suffered an episode of intensive anxiety.

How to deal best with this?… Put it in a freezer, in the Mindpalace, try to store it away securely.

There were three fridges and freezers in the Palace and he opted for the one in one of the subterraneous levels.

When he reached it, he tried to pack a mental bundle and wrap the memory of the dungeon and the panic from a few minutes ago tightly into it. His mental movements were clumsy.

The freezer door felt slimy and disgusting, though he couldn't see any contamination on it. When he pulled the door open something fell out.

He realised it was his violin bow, it was broken, had been shot… some hairs stood to all directions and the wood was broken.

He vaguely remembered he had hid it in here after seeing the footage of John on his bed with his violin and John's gun.

The broken bow was a reminder of how much he had damaged John's trust and health and… friendship.

It served him right that his violin was now crippled without the bow, he didn't deserve the comfort of the instrument.

It now was an admonition of his failure and misjudgement.

 _He_ had shot the thing with John's virtual weapon… some time during his first night back at Baker Street, after the restaurant-events; frustrated, in pain, and in the early hours of a horrible, sleepless night.

He had ruined everything good he ever had in his life, feared for the friendship.

With disgust about his transports weakness he noted that he had started trembling when reaching for the bow. He picked it up, with two fingers, as if it was smudged.

It was, he realised, with his guilt.

He deserved to be punished for what had happened and that he had been too stupid to foresee it and too slow to prevent it.

He was a bad choice for a friend.

Had he done John any good by coming back or would he be better off without him?

As fast as he could, he put the bow back into the freezer, and tried to store away his shame and whatever else was feeling so bad in there, too.

The new sentiment called vulnerability shouldn't be allowed to get out of there ever again. He closed the door and secured it with a padlock.

When he resurfaced to reality it seemed the pain in his shoulders and back had increased.

By creating an emotionless bubble he tried to withdrew from any sense of realness and achieve sleep.

Once again he was stunned by too much sentiment; when he finally felt sleep creep over the edge of his consciousness he didn't fight it.

 

 


	12. Tuesday – Car Ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to find out what is bothering Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gattis or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

In the morning Lestrade informed them that another case had surfaced, which might be another victim of the killer they were looking for.

So Sherlock and John headed over to Barts and met with Molly and the DI at the morgue. After a thorough inspection Sherlock an Molly doubted this was related to their case, there were too many differences. To be sure Lestrade and the two men went over to her flat, which was almost an hour away; Sherlock insisted on separate cars, as ususal.

When the search of all the rooms was finally complete, it was obvious that this person had probably just committed suicide, there were too many differences to the other crime scenes.

Half an hour later Lestrade promised the duo he'd text if there were any news and greeted them goodbye, he left with the squad car.

Sherlock and John headed back towards John's car and Sherlock tried to enter in the back.

"Sherlock, what are you doing? Sit in the front," John ordered, while slipping out of his jacket.

"Sorry, force of habit."

John didn't really believe it, especially since Sherlock looked as if he wanted to be left alone.

"And put the coat in the back I want to use the heating."

Sherlock hesitated, then sat inside with his coat still on, ignoring John.

The doctor pulled back into the city traffic a few seconds later, Sherlock kept his silence.

After a few minutes, when John wanted to do a right turn, his view was obstructed by the stiff upright sitting detective next to him. He had already observed how stiff Sherlock's movements were was many times in the past days, but now it alarmingly visible.

"Sherlock, relax. My driving isn't that bad, is it?" he tried to provoke a reaction.

"What?" Sherlock obviously couldn't follow.

"I can't see."

John stopped at a red light, reached over and gently pushed Sherlock back into the seat.

The consultant had looked the other direction and was too perplexed to react in time to prevent the movement. John saw him clench his teeth and an almost silent hiss escaped his mouth before he could stop it.

Staring at him John, drew his hand back in surprise. The facts finally fell into place, the other man had obviously tried to hide something with much effort.

This was the proof that Sherlock was in a lot of pain and the it must come from his back.

When Sherlock had returned from the dead he was not fit, but he seemed to have gotten worse instead of better since then. The doctor decided that this was finally the right moment to address it; Sherlock couldn't run off right now.

"Where are you hurt?" John's voice was low and he tried so sound kind, although he felt anger about the fact that Sherlock had not told him.

"I'm fine," Sherlock tried.

"No, you aren't. Don't insult my medical skills. I'm a bloody doctor! You move like a seventy-year old, you have headaches, a low blood pressure, and your skin is the driest I've ever seen on you."

He swiftly took Sherlock's hand and raised it for him to see. It felt even colder than he had expected.

Sherlock said nothing. He didn't deny it, he just said nothing, and looked weary and like a scolded child.

John frowned.

He had expected him to contradict him, be pout or whatever.

But Sherlock just kept his silence.

John stared at him, taking it all in. The detective looked older than he remembered him from before the fall. His skin was not any longer as wrinkle-free as it had been. Sherlock had aged _more_ than two years in the past two years; he knew it was the same with his own appearance. It had been a hard time, on both of them. But Sherlock looked worn out, even more than he had last week.

Cars behind them started to blow their horns and John realised the light had turned to green.

He went on.

 

Sherlock's mind was racing.

Damn… John would not oversee _this_ sign of obvious pain… Think!

But he failed to come up with a obfuscation, he was too tired and… in fact, his thoughts were in disorder.

He felt caught, didn't want John to see his back.

How could he evade that?

He failed to come up with a solution.

As long as he was taking the painkillers and the antibiotics it had been easy to turn down the pain reception to a comfortable level and hide it, but in the past days it had come to hit him full force, a constant reminder of the events that had caused the injuries on his back.

No… keep those memories away… Dungeon: store away information into mind palace's cellar, _again_.

He had tried that before, but they must have escaped from their storing place.

The only door to the storage room was marked with an 'enter with caution'-sign, and he had put them in a freezer.

Mental note: check door and freezer for signs of having been opened from the outside.

This was ridiculous! No one was in here except him, so either he had let them out or they had gotten out themselves.

He knew he had tried to store these particular memories away several times now, but the wicked thoughts and the locks had developed a life of their own.

Wait, John's mental manifestation should be here… it was usually just a voice, never a corporal image of him… it was always present, talking freely.

Other people had a physical appearance in the palace sometimes, especially Mycroft, but John hadn't, at least not since his return.

For the first time Sherlock wondered why.

Probably John was too much an element of him to have his own body?

His presence was so much woven into Sherlock's existence he didn't need a physical image, John was part of the structure itself; always there, impossible to be shut out from anything, Sherlock needed no privacy from John, the doctor was granted access everywhere.

During the past days he had been confronted with the torture-memory's door accidentally while being busy with something else.

Now he finally noted it seemed to move freely within the mind palace… reappearing unexpectedly, the door's label gone, which caused him to enter by accident. Recently the door even opened when he passed and the content poured into the corridor transferring it to the room itself. The idea to mark the corridor hadn't helped either.

That all had happened before he had put _them_ in the freezer.

Now, he was kind of lost about what else to try.

Maybe put it all in a vault?… Bank-sized one. But he needed to built it first… and not in a way that would prevent anything to get in, but out… maybe better to try a prison than a vault? High security thing?

This was finally the moment where he had to admit to himself that there might be a problem… and it was not the _only_ problem.

John would not leave this alone.

Protect John from agony meant: keep him away from anything related to Serbia… but John would act hurt if he didn't tell him, so this problem ended up chasing it's own tail. He despised those kinds of problems. Solutions that caused the problem itself were unacceptable.

Once more, he had run into a dead end with his social interaction. Whatever he'd do, it would be wrong, this had happened a lot lately and it was disturbing.

Was he just out of practice or had he just not been able to spot these kinds of problems before?

No, he had, he had just not considered them important and ignored them.

But things were different now, this was _John_ and that meant: ignoring bad solutions was… bad.

His only point of reference, the one he'd have consulted in the past: John.

Oh, this had even _two_ tails to chase… Kind of three dimensional rounding in circles.

His mind came to a full stop when white pain flashed behind his brows in slow motion. He jerked back to reality.

.

John drove through the city in silence.

His passenger appeared to be either deep in thoughts, or stubbornly refusing to speak in order to evade any topic he didn't want to talk about.

After fifteen minutes Sherlock blinked several times, kind of resurfacing from wherever he had escaped to, and John decided to approach the thing now and here and different than before.

"You remember when you sneaked out of the house to join a mad murder cab driver and almost got killed?

Sherlock needed some time to register the question.

"Yes…" he finally answered.

"You remember when you left me out at a front door and were almost strangled to death?"

"Yes. But if he had wanted to kill me he would have done it. It was a warning."

"Not the point."

"What _is_ the point?"

"You remember when you invited Moriarty to meet you at the pool?"

"Of course I do."

"I ended up as a bomb carrier and we got into a really nasty situation. Wasn't much fun, even with your standards."

"No, it wasn't."

"You remember when you told me that alone is what you have and that it protects you?"

"Yess…" Sherlock hesitated, probably getting where John was heading with his questions, had taken quite some time.

"I ended up watching you committing suicide… Was no fun, at all."

"I already got that," Sherlock's stubbornness seemed to rise, his speech patterns became more chiselled.

"Whenever you left me out of the loop or pushed me away, one of us got hurt. Whenever you were too self-reliant to accept my help or my company it all went straight to hell," John gently explained.

"I…"

"In fact there's not a single incident I remember where you shut me out and it worked to a satisfactory outcome. Kind of learning-resistant with this, aren't you?"

Sherlock didn't say anything in a know-it-all-manner to that.

"So could you stop that this time _before_ someone gets hurt?… Besides that you obviously are already hurt, I want no further avoidable injuries due to your lack of accepting help."

"I was only trying to…" Sherlock grunted out, evident in his voice that he felt misunderstood.

"Yeah, what, Sherlock?"

"…to protect you."

"Yeah, and every time this is what made the shit hit the fan in the end," John was angry but tried not to show it.

"I…"

"For us to solve cases together again I need to know that you trust me, Sherlock. So let me in."

"Fine," Sherlock hissed, he seemed to surrender to the fact that his path of action was faulty. "I… hurt the skin on my back and it needed some stitches," he then muttered, sounding embarrassed.

"When?"

"Four days before I choose to be so dumb to play the role of a garçon."

"Is that a curious way to say sorry for that poorly considered action?"

"Guess so," Sherlock looked down into his lab, the consonants spoken even more sharp than before, almost hissed.

John could feel Sherlock's shame and resentment almost physically. He was in fact a picture of misery.

Was it really because he was depressed with how this had turned out between them?

Was it possible this was the main problem?

John understood that it was important, but there was something else.

"What is it Sherlock that you aren't telling me?"

"John, I can't… not now… not this very moment,… I mean…" Sherlock's voice was carrying some distress now.

John took his eyes off the road and looked at his friend.

Sherlock was pale, cold, in pain and…? A bit poking was needed.

"You don't want to talk about it because you want to protect me?"

"Hmm… No… maybe."

"Because it is a secret?"

"No. Not between us, maybe for the rest of the world, not Mycroft, though."

This made John relax, but the reasons that were left were not good and he felt himself tense up again.

"You don't want to say it because you're afraid I'll react badly?"

"I'm not afraid."

"So you _know_ I'll react badly?" John had figured out this way of evading the truth long ago.

"Stop this."

"You don't want to talk about it because it's too hard?" John had never ever thought he'd ask Sherlock such a question, it was almost absurd.

Sherlock remained silent.

Bingo, dammit!

There were two minutes of silence and John pretended to concentrate to find the right street.

"Okay. Move the seat back so I can see out of the window, the handle is on the right."

Sherlock stiffly moved forward and pushed the seat back.

"Good. Did you take any meds for that and when?"

"Course of antibiotics, ended last Monday," Sherlock said in a low voice.

So the wound had been infected or in danger of getting infected, the doctor diagnosed silently.

"Painkillers?"

"Last one: last weekend I think."

"Which ones?"

"Prescription, non opioid."

So the injury was not just a superficial cut then, John concluded.

"Who did…?"

"Mycroft's physician."

John relaxed a bit, he had feared Sherlock had obtained the meds on his own.

"Okay, there's Ibuprofen in the glove compartment, take one."

Sherlock hesitated.

"Come on, you're in pain. We'll be on the road for at least another half hour, no need to hurt more than you already do."

John didn't ask why Sherlock had not mentioned his injury before and Sherlock downed one of the large pills dry.

"Reach behind your seat, there's a bottle of water."

"No, thanks."

"Sherlock, your stomach is probably not in the best of moods, either. You don't want a gastritis, so drink the bloody water," John ordered.

"My stomach is fine," Sherlock ignored the order.

"So, what do you think about the victim's flat that you didn't say out loud back there?" John asked to escape the awkward moment, he was assuming Sherlock had held back some thoughts at the scene and he decided to end the topic for now would be beneficial for later.

Sherlock went through every detail of the things they had seen and he had deduced but there was nothing John would label another discovery, especially since they determined it wasn't the work of 'their' killer.

John found himself listening to Sherlock's deep voice and the joy of being given the gift to hear such a boring and amazing monologue again.

He smiled and knew Sherlock had missed it to go on crime scenes together, too.

 

 


	13. Tuesday – Back at 221b

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally John has realised there is something wrong with Sherlock's back demands to see it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.
> 
> Thanks to all the kind souls who write comments and tell me what they think! :) …You're great.
> 
> I usually put dots at the beginning of a line when a change of perspective happens.

 

"Dinner?" Sherlock asked when they car made another turn, only a few minutes away from Baker Street.

John looked at him, Sherlock-suggesting-eating for the second time within days was odd. Was Sherlock trying to prolong their arrival to the flat?

While they waited in the Chinese restaurant Sherlock offered to buy a bottle of wine, now, John was sure his former flatmate tried everything to evade what he knew was coming. The doctor looked at him with narrowed eyes, which made Sherlock look away in surrender.

Confirmed prolonging then.

 

"Okay, strip," John ordered as soon as they had entered the flat.

"Is Mary aware..." Sherlock started.

"Yes, she is aware that - due to my profession - I tell people to get naked sometimes," John interrupted the dumb try to evade the inevitable.

"The food is getting cold," Sherlock complained, unenthusiastically. But eating would be at least less inconvenient than getting his shirt off, for both of them. Besides, he was much too cold to get undressed.

"Then you better hurry," John suggested.

He wouldn't back off, Sherlock knew that tone.

"John… I really don't think this is a good idea."

"Why not?"

"I'd prefer not to have another stressful… event, tonight."

"You tried to hide it from me, it is you that caused stress that way. Be honest with me and there won't be trouble."

"I ..." Sherlock seemed desperate.

"Dammit! Get that shirt off!" John's voice was getting loud.

Sherlock flinched because of the anger in the air. He wasn't really understanding what the reason for it.

He turned around, making two steps towards his room.

Flight, only option.

"Sherlock!" John yelled, "If you push me away and hide now I _will_ go home… and I will _not_ come back. So you better don't do another step… and get that bloody shirt off!"

This made Sherlock stop dead in his tracks.

He stood there, feeling something… strong.

Nonono, bad moment for that.

He knew that feeling… panic.

Not good.

How John sounded right now… absolutely no doubt he meant business.

It made Sherlock's chest feel tight and the air viscous, and he noted that not only the threat, but also the single idea to tell John about anything that surrounded the events in Serbia made him feel out of air and… was this how distress felt?

.

John was unbelievable relieved when Sherlock stopped. It softened his anger how fast Sherlock had done so in fact.

They both stood there, unmoving, John five steps behind Sherlock, next to the armchairs, Sherlock half in the kitchen.

The doctor realised the other man was literally frozen.

Was he breathing?

He decided to move, Sherlock had done the first step by stopping, he could do the next; besides, getting in his way might be good in case he'd decide to flee.

John rounded Sherlock and stood before him, the other man's eyes were wide and he was in fact holding his breath unconsciously.

"Sherlock?"

The detective didn't move, didn't even blink.

"Sherlock? Breathe!" John ordered.

He had paled and the doctor wondered if he was about to pass out.

What was going on here? What could be so embarrassing that Sherlock would try to hide it, throw a man, who acted like a machine more often than like a human being, into so much distress?

He was afraid! _Sherlock_ was afraid. Oh god, what could be so bad to make him so anxious? Something terminal or deadly? It must be something really horrible.

"Sherlock…" John raised his hands and gently took Sherlock's shoulders, "…breathe… Come on…"

He felt the disquiet take over. Sherlock exhaled in a stuttering way and when he inhaled, John felt him start trembling.

.

Sherlock realised he had to do this, he had to stop fighting John, entrust him with this. In the past he had managed to trust him with issues of his own health before… maybe he should just see it as that, shut out all the other stuff… He doubted it would work.

Maybe _he_ could manage, but John probably wouldn't, he'd react emotional to seeing his wounds.

Sherlock knew the doctor would take this badly, he had tried to hide it, but John knew him too well. He had indeed become suspicious and watched him even closer, finally Sherlock realised that no matter how much effort he put into hiding it, it was only a matter of time before the fact that he was in pain would be discovered.

So he tried to evade it as long as possible, heal as much as possible before letting his former flatmate see it.

John would get hurt by this… and Sherlock would feel John's hurt and then hurt from his hurt… another tail-circle.

Who had opened that box he hadn't even been aware existed for so long?

This came with friendship, love… caring.

Caring hurts, he already knew that much. He had decided he wanted to care for John… He would get through with this.

.

Sherlock stood before him, looking at the floor. John could see he was not really present, his thoughts were chasing something and he didn't like the distress those thoughts did to Sherlock's body.

Then something changed, Sherlock looked up, into John's eyes, just for a short moment, and the haunted expression made the doctor let go off the other man's shoulders and step back.

Sherlock's gaze went distant and although he was staring ahead roughly to where John's face was, he knew Sherlock didn't see him.

The detective slowly got rid of his coat and his suit jacket.

.

Sherlock had seen the anger in John's eyes and he knew there'd be much more anger and yelling soon, he tried to block out his desperation for now, in order to get through this without any sensations overwhelming him.

His hands opened the first button of the shirt, he hesitated. Something had changed in John's emotional emissions. The doctor's anger was completely replaced with… fear? Or… 'not good'.

It fuelled Sherlock's panic once more. He looked to the floor while slowly unbuttoning the rest of the shirt and taking his arms out off the sleeves.

Still tucked into the waistband of his dress trousers, the sleeves fell to his thighs.

.

Sherlock stood there, his upper half naked now, and didn't move. His breathing was so shallow John wondered if he was getting enough oxygen. Sherlock had paled and was clearly in some plight he himself probably didn't understand.

The detective's chest showed some fading red lines across it, but they were faint and superficial.

John realised that he'd have to get around Sherlock himself when the other man closed his eyes and waited, not turning around himself.

He did.

.

Sherlock closed his eyes, the onslaught of emotions causing an uproar.

He heard John walk around him and then gasp, Sherlock clenched his teeth.

He just stood there... waiting what John would do.

Time stretched into what felt like minutes.

He didn't want to face the other man, feared what he might say… of how he'd react.

Would John leave after seeing this?

Stress accumulated and he waited… the last thing he expected was the strangled noise John made.

It was so odd, it made him turn around immediately.

John had his hand pressed over his mouth and tears in his eyes.

After a few seconds he raised his eyes to look at Sherlock's face, the hurt the detective saw in the other man's eyes caused an intense struggle with some unknown mental disorientation.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock muttered, feeling sick.

He had tried to say sorry for several things before… but this…

Had he expressed _enough_ how bad he felt about all this in hindsight?

He inserted the information again.

This changed something.

John's breath hitched and now the other man closed his eyes for a moment.

.

John rounded Sherlock and there they were… horrible bright red and brown marks... all over Sherlock's back.

When he realised these were marks of torture, John held his breath.

Blue and yellow bruises covered the whole dorsum, which meant: recent torture. The doctor had seen victims who looked like those before.

There were also superficial cuts, too many to count, covered by deeper ones on the upper torso and really deep ones that criss-crossed around the shoulder blades and the soft flesh around T12 and L1 in the small of his back. Fresh scars went down into the trouser waistband.

Two long gashes had been stitched with about sixteen to twenty stitches each… The right one was bleeding and there was saniopurulent oozing where several stitches were torn. In some areas the angry red of infection mingled with dried liquids.

The shock about this took John's breath away.

He had thought it would be bad, but this was… unexpected… and really bad.

He clutched his hand over his mouth when he felt a sob raise in his chest.

God... no!

When Sherlock turned around, John saw that the expression on his face was in fact shame and maybe a bit of anxiety.

But for what? For being tortured?

How could anyone be embarrassed about that? What was Sherlock was afraid of now?

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock's words made a dam break and John had a hard time to get his breathing under control, finally he managed.

"What for, Sherlock?… You didn't do this yourself, so what for?" John managed between the fingers of his left hand, then let it sink to his side.

"Of course not," Sherlock whispered, "I'm sorry you have to see this."

"Why?" John gasped.

"Because I failed to prevent it."

"Oh, god, Sherlock! You were _tortured_! I…" John felt his voice break, and the realisation what that meant hit him fully a moment later.

Sherlock had endured this to bring down Moriarty's web… in other words to save _him_.

 _And_ John had attacked Sherlock, with so much force it had knocked them both to the ground… The already wounded man had landed on his back, in that bloody restaurant, and him on top of his friend, with his full weight, trying to strangle him!

He himself was probably the one who was responsible Sherlock's back was even worse and the stitches were torn… and he had even hit him a short time later, not once but twice.

God!

John felt he wouldn't be able to keep his tears inside any longer… and other things.

"Don't move... just stay here," he gasped and then ran to the bathroom, took his time to close the door firmly.

He barely made it to the toilet before his stomach expelled everything in it.

John desperately tried to keep the noises down, but it was no use at all.

Shit!

How could he have been so blind? So dumb! So angry, to beat a beaten man even further. The thoughts fuelled the nausea and it took quite some time until the retching stopped.

His face was wet with tears when he wiped his mouth, he stood up shakily.

The knowledge that he had added to his best friend's injuries made it much worse.

He pressed a towel to his face to muffle any sounds.

So Sherlock had in fact tried to protect him from the very hurt he was feeling right now? Protecting him my ass! It was the wrong idea of protection all over.

He was angry with himself, and angry with Sherlock, and angry with Moriarty, and even more angry with his own anger.

He wasn't the only one who had been through hell in the past two years, Sherlock had been there, too. Why hadn't he understood that before?

He had, but he hadn't granted Sherlock that he hurt.

The thought made him wretch once more and yellow bile hit the porcelain bowl.

At least Sherlock was not badly ill, he thought with sarcasm, remembering his earlier fear.

The detective needed medical attention, this was the least he could do. He needed to get over this and help him!

 


	14. Tuesday – 221b

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

John wiped his mouth once more and then rinsed it with water to get rid of the foul taste. He needed to get back to Sherlock and help him.

When he stumbled back to the living room Sherlock had indeed not moved. In fact he stood there as if frozen in shock.

"Sherlock?" John stammered.

No reaction.

"Sherlock?… Answer me!" John begged, "Come on, we need to get you cleaned up!"

John rounded Sherlock and when he saw the other man's eyes he fought tears again. Sherlock was staring into the distance, his eyes red but dry.

He looked so… lost.

"Sherlock?" John gently reached for his arm and after a moment of hesitation he wrapped his fingers gently around it, when his eyes fell onto Sherlock's wrists he clenched his jaw. There were marks of metal restrains, they looked as if Sherlock had fought desperately… or as if they had held his weight for quite some time?

John hurt with the emotionless figure in front of him, who was showing so much emotion piled in his own unique way that the doctor wondered how he even was able to stand upright.

What else had to happen to make these walls finally crumble?

"Sherlock? Come on, sit down. I'll have a look at that," John gently stirred Sherlock to the nearest chair. There was no resistance.

"Sit."

Sherlock blinked several times, like fighting his way back to reality… and fighting his distress. John had seen this before, when the detective had spend time in his mind palace he often needed a moment to adjust and switch back to real life.

"On a scale from one to ten how much does it hurt?"

"I don't know," Sherlock breathed.

John checked his watch. He could give him another dose of Ibuprofen soon. He fetched the first aid bag and started to work.

Carefully, he inspected the wounds and while doing so came to the conclusion that it was not a good working position and that he needed more light.

"I need you to lie on your stomach… in your bed," he added before Sherlock could even try to think about the sofa.

"What for?"

"So I can do this without kneeling, and you can relax."

Sherlock blew his breath out in a way that clearly showed he didn't think this was necessary.

"Come on."

John tugged at his elbow, one of the few places that didn't seem hurt.

The detective stood up slowly and shuffled towards his bedroom. John looked after him with even more horror. He looked so very battered. Something he had never thought possible to see on this man.

The doctor fetched the medical stuff and hurried after him.

Sherlock had lain down on the bed and his face was turned away from the door.

After moving the standard lamp into position to light his working area, John sat on the bed.

"Tell me if you need me to pause," John said softly.

With care, he disinfected the whole area as good as possible.

Sherlock didn't make a sound when the burning liquid touched his skin… but a few minutes into the cleaning John felt his trembling get worse.

The torn stitches needed to be redone. It was quite clear the wounds hadn't been taken care of for about eight to ten days, probably since Mycroft's physician had initially treated them.

John cursed silently. Sherlock wasn't even remotely taking care of himself!

"When were those stitches to be removed?"

"Tomorrow."

"And when exactly were you… tor-… eh…?" he couldn't even say it, "When did this happen?"

"Last time they beat me… maybe four days before the restaurant."

"Maybe?"

"I don't know…" Sherlock's voice was a whisper.

"Why not?" John probed, desperately hoping to get some more insight.

"It's… a bit of a blur."

"Why?"

"The journey back was kind of confusing… and later Mycroft's physician knocked me out."

"Journey from where?"

"Serbia?"

"This happened in Serbia?"

"Yes."

"So you came back and went to Mycroft?"

"No… He came in and got me out… Watched them beat me into a pulp before doing so."

"What?" John yelled and Sherlock winced.

"Well, he needed his cover to be convincing, at least that was _his_ argument."

"I'll punch him for that!"

"You punch people a lot lately, don't you?… Although Mycroft might deserves it for this… and I probably did, too."

John huffed in disapproval.

"Is that why you let me hurt you even more, because you think you deserved it? Is that why you didn't defend yourself?"

Sherlock didn't reply but the doctor could feel him tensing up.

"…and why you let this fester instead of taking care of it?… It's inflamed where the stitches were torn. You know what that means… this would have gotten life threatening soon if not taken care of."

Sherlock's shivering was not getting any better, quite the opposite in fact.

"The stitches were torn when I threw you to the floor in the restaurant, weren't they?"

Sherlock didn't answer and John took that as confirmation.

"God,…" he had to fight hard again to keep his emotions in check again. "How long were you held captive?"

Sherlock stayed silent, he had not moved the tiniest bit since John had started treating him.

"Sherlock, please tell me. You know it hurts me more to be kept in the dark than been confronted with the truth, please."

"Hmm… Approximately seven… days, before I was pulled out by Mycroft. I lost count, then, too."

"What did they do, except beating you?"

"Chained me to the ceiling…" Sherlock whispered in distress, "Prevented me from going to sleep and… it was a cellar. No way to know if it was day or night."

So Sherlock had been tortured for several _days_ actually. John closed his eyes and bit his lips to contain his emotions and calm his stomach. Concentrating on the matter at hand was what the other man needed right now, not being confronted with John's emotions.

"I need to clean the infected areas, where the stitches are torn, then close them again," John gently informed, inspecting the wounds carefully. This was not life-threatening yet, but surely causing a lot of pain. The wounds should have healed better by now.

"Okay," Sherlock mumbled.

"I'll give you a local for that, relax."

Sherlock didn't react when John wiped the area again and then administered the anaestetic, piercing the skin at several points to numb the area thoroughly.

While he waited for the stuff to take effect, he inspected Sherlock's 'good' skin. It was dry, and scaly, even cracked at some points. Sherlock was malnourished and the lack of vitamins and certain minerals was visible even on the outside, the prolonged healing was caused by the shortcoming, too.

The detective felt cold to the touch and when John wanted to check his BP the prone man simply refused to move and therefore he couldn't do it. John gave up, no use, he already knew it was low.

The doctor went to the kitchen to get a glass of water and searched for some fizzy-tablets with vitamins or something, he knew he had seen them somewhere before.

Well, _that_ was two years ago. But in the end he found them, they were past their date but looked okay. He also found the prescription meds in the fridge, the ones he had before thought were stuff for one of Sherlock's experiments. There were some heavy duty painkillers, anti-inflammatory, too.

John returned to Sherlock's bedside, the detective hadn't moved and was still shivering, so he turned up the heating.

He rested his hand against Sherlock's lesser damaged shoulder for a moment, lost for words and just wanting to signal his presence as a friend.

"Sherlock, you're exhausted, when have you last slept?"

"While 'go," Sherlock mumbled into his pillow.

"So days then. Are you having nightmares of the torture?… Are there other memories that haunt you?"

Sherlock stayed silent.

"Talk to me, please."

"Can we…" Sherlock's voice was so hoarse he needed to pause to clear his throat, "Can we do this later?"

John hesitated, wondering if the other man was trying to evade it, but then realised that Sherlock must feel like shit and decided to leave it for now… There was just one more thing he really needed to know.

"Alright, but I need to see how far down the injuries go."

The prone figure huffed in annoyance, "They stop about eleven centimetres below the waistline, in the middle of the sacrum, no need for treatment there."

"Please let me see myself. You need to get rid of the trousers for sleeping anyway."

John could almost hear Sherlock roll his eyes, but then he positioned himself on his side and opened his waistband.

"Cold…" The detective mumbled.

After adjusting the heating to the maximum John fetched a blanket that was draped over a nearby chair to give Sherlock time to work his trousers out of the way.

Before the moment could get awkward Sherlock was back on his stomach, his face turned away from John, who then covered his lower body with the blanket. The doctor held the tube of fizzy tablets over Sherlock's shoulder for him to see.

"Did you use those for experiments or are they fit to drink?"

"Fit," Sherlock mumbled and John dropped a tablet into the glass of water.

Once more he started inspecting Sherlock's back. The sacral area looked not better than the rest of Sherlock's back and John tugged down the boxers a bit more to get a better look.

He frowned, a new, far more horrible question springing into his mind.

Had Sherlock been assaulted in other ways than being beaten?

There were cuts on the upper half of the buttocks… but he didn't want to undress Sherlock any more for the moment.

He stood up and rounded the bed to look into Sherlock's face for the next question.

"Sherlock, open your eyes, mate."

The detective did, slowly. His eyes were glazed over with pain when he looked up.

The doctor knelt down next to the bed so they were at the same height. John pushed back Sherlock's hair so get a better view of the other man's face without touching the skin.

"Did they assault you sexually?"

Sherlock blinked slowly.

"Sherlock, answer me…"

"No," Sherlock murmured, looking into John's eyes with an indulgent look, then closed his eyes again. John was sure he was telling the truth and the relief about that fact made his legs wobbly.

A few moments later the doctor had returned to the other side of the bed and sat down without any more words and went to work.

He cleaned the wounds, inspected the torn skin and made new knots with fresh sterile threat.

Half an hour later he was done and bandaged the area. Gently, he applied some antibacterial ointment over the rest of Sherlock's back. The man was still trembling but the movement of John's hands seemed to help him relax a bit. When John noticed that, he prolonged the gentle contact a bit, but just in a medically over-accurate way, no more.

"You need some rest," John ended the treatment session, tying not to disturb the relaxation.

"Hm, what for?"

"Make a deduction, detective."

"Consulting…. "

"Yeah, yeah, I know, shut up. I'll get some painkillers, then you need to sleep."

John went into the kitchen and read the patient information leaflet while returning with the pills. He rounded the bed again and tipped Sherlock's shoulder.

"Here, take them."

Sherlock dawdling managed to get into a position that would allow him to drink from the glass, then downed the offered meds with the now dissolved vitamins.

"You want something to help you sleep, too?" John offered. He was sure Sherlock was suffering from the memories of his imprisonment, if his jerkiness and the nightmares were any indication. Probably there were even more things from the past two years that would pass as traumatic, but he needed to wait for another moment to ask for those.

"No."

"Okay, I'll get some stuff from Tesco. Rest."

Sherlock made no signs that he was interested to move.

The doctor briefly touched the back of Sherlock's head, trying to show support and give some comfort.

"Take a nap. I'll be back in an hour."

Sherlock didn't react and John understood that he might want some peace and quiet after this ordeal.

 


	15. Tuesday night, Sherlock's POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.
> 
> Thanks to all of you who wrote comments, left kudos and / or are hanging on to my stories. I'm having a hard time and this is a small light in my currently kind of dark world. Thank you so much for your kindness :)  
> Ehm… this might be a bit dark therefore, too.

 

Sherlock felt John's hand on his back, cleaning him up. At first, he tried to escape to his mind palace, like he had during the long hours of torture, during which he had not always succeeded to enter. The shockwaves of pain and humiliation made him loose the path to the entrance, and they had also damaged the palace. Up to the present he hadn't had the strength to repair it or even inspect the damage… Right now, when he couldn't find the path immediately, he abandoned the idea and tried to stay in reality. He had so often longed for John's presence in the cellar, it felt kind of a waste to wander away now that he was present and trying to communicate.

Concentrating on John with all his senses covered the bad memories up, at least temporarily.

His former flatmate was breathing faster than normal, hands steady and gentle, almost careful; usually John's touch was more firm.

The taste of John's shock lingered in the air… and something else…

Disgust?

Anger?

Guilt?

Whatever is was, it made the room sticky… Not lingering on _that_ … back to sensing John.

The other man smelled tired and typically like he should.

Sherlock's senses were indeed really glad to feel him again. The fact that he was alive and in 221b was… _soothing_ …

A few years ago he'd never even thought he'd be able to even connect a sensation to the word 'soothing', and now the _feeling_ registered as extraordinary important. He tried to lean in into that sentiment and keep it safe.

The fact that John uttered he'd punch Mycroft for letting him being tormented actually brought some satisfaction, although he knew he wouldn't allow it, not to keep Mycroft safe, but to protect John from his sibling's wrath.

He waded through the thick need he had experienced when John was absent, until some time later a needle and threat went through skin where the local had failed to numb him completely. The stinging sensation vividly brought back the fast flowing red memories of the dungeon. They were so heavy and ugly, he decided he needed to put them away, bring them to his mental vault right now.

Breathing deeply, he concentrated on entering the mind palace… it took three tries to actually get in, but he made it.

He rushed to the vault, which he had built into a whole new underground level.

Getting in with all the security measures and codes and identification he had created took some time, but he managed.

When he finally stood inside the ridiculously overprotected strong room, he tried to leave the memories behind, they had gotten kind of sticky and were hard to let go.

He turned around and found the mass had developed a tail… a slick one… a connection - like a stretched lump of bubble gum - to something somewhere else. This was exhaustingly vague.

He picked the connection up from the ground and tried to drag it in, but it became longer and thinner.

Unnerved about the ungraceful-ness, he tried to follow it outside to find the source, but it went up the stairs.

He'd laughed out loud if the whole thing wasn't this dreadful!

How this behaved in here was just ridiculous. He hated this special trifle.. and that he wasn't able to handle it.

Finally, pulling the thing got easier, and he messily rolled the visualisation of the memory into the vault, it had turned from slimy grey-green into an alarming orange by now.

Banging the heavy door shut made the ground tremble, he entered the code.

This could never get out of there of it's own!

"Sherlock, you're exhausted, when have you last slept?" John's voice echoed through the palace and Sherlock fought his way back to reality.

John wanted to talk.

He couldn't… not now, not in this position… he was so tired.

It was all so ugly… and then he was suddenly confronted with even uglier thoughts. John wanted to see proof that he hadn't been sexually abused.

On one hand he was… sad - yes, this was actually sadness - about the fact that John didn't just believe him but needed to _see_ how far down the marks went.

He rolled his eyes, but he owed John honesty… he had squandered his trust, therefore he needed to show prove.

Okay, for _John_ he'd do this, if there was any chance he'd be able to gain John's trust again* it would be by trusting him and showing him, so he worked himself out of his trousers.

The heating was switched on… Good… John was always good to him, more than he deserved.

To not have him around, and instead other people, had shown him so very clearly how extraordinary John was, how he cared, how he was friendly to him… And right now he felt like he had never done anything to deserve John's friendship… in _his_ understanding of the world he of course had, but now he realised this was not what _John_ needed.

His flatmate needed care _he_ felt was care, not what Sherlock thought would mean care in his own mindset. He had recently learned that making one felt cared for depended on what the receiving person would feel good with, not what he himself wanted John to feel good with. For _this,_ one needed to know John's definitions of feeling cared for… He might have uttered them and at least a few must be stored somewhere in the database… But very often Sherlock hadn't really cared about those utterances enough to register them at all.

It was okay that John was no longer wanting to be his friend after he had left him. John was right, he was a dick, didn't deserve a friend.

The doctor tried to convince him to sleep, but the remembered horror of his last nightmare made him back off the idea immediately.

John gave him painkillers and told him to have a nap… and then - Sherlock felt his whole body produced horripilation - John rested a hand on the back of his head before he left the room.

This was when the fragile shell of holding it all contained got another crack, Sherlock could in fact hear the fissure open and felt the tearing in his mind.

Another few seconds later he felt hot liquid on his face… the same sensation he had felt while standing on the edge of Barts' roof … and a whole bundle of fear rushed back into him.

On the roof he had tried to calm himself with the thought that all would be fine as soon as he had destroyed Moriarty's net and he' d be back in London.

How had it all gone so wrong?

The tearing pain that was caused by saying goodbye to John two years ago returned with full vengeance.

And _now_ John rejected him… Why was he even here?

Out of pity?

He had said he had forgiven him.

Was that the same or the opposite of rejection?

It wasn't that long ago that he had actually fought his tears - though they had fallen never the less - in the bomb/train compartment. It had felt raw, when John's fondness and anger had mixed.

It left him confused, it felt so bad to have been so cruel to return to John's life.

He knew he had disabled the bomb, but failed to say it immediately, the storm of emotions that whirled around in his head had prolonged the moment he needed to get the thoughts out.

The idea of having messed up John's life and what an asshole he was to have done it _again_ by returning hit him full force that moment… and instead of thanking John for his kindness of expressing forgiveness, he had laughed about it all and made jokes about his face - to hide his tears - not really what a friend should do.

John's relief that they were actually not seconds away from death and maybe his messed up apology had overwhelmed the doctor. In hindsight he wondered why John hadn't punched him again, he would have deserved it.

Now he relived that feeling, that he didn't deserve any of John's kindness. He never ever had been a good friend to John, hadn't he?

He searched the database… but the few times when _he_ had thought he had been nice, were mostly not received to be with a 'good intention' in the end.

Exhaustion caused havoc and chaos in his thoughts. He had tried to label the feelings about the whole affair neatly in order to find ways to counteract John's and his own disarray… Head ached…. John's touch had assembled some dark red sleep that rolled over him and clenched around him, he didn't fight it, he was just too spend to resist… a few moments later all thoughts were gone.

.

Nothingness didn't stay empty long, soon it turned into a bit of distress and then pulled his mind into a wild reminiscence that he wasn't able to sort out.

He was getting out of a taxi at Barts, wanting to see Molly - their first meeting after his return - when his gaze was drawn towards the edge of the roof. He didn't want to look at the rim, the memory of how terrifying - he had never expected that there could be anything in his life that would earn that adjective - it had been to call John still lingering, way to intense.

There was a figure on the roof.

Couldn't be… the possibility that someone else would chose this location to commit suicide, too, was minimal. There were so many buildings in London one could jump off, why chose this one?

His heart missed a beat when he realised the outline was familiar.

He looked closer.

No, couldn't be…

Nonono!

Something was dancing through the air between him and the motionless man on the roof… a small piece of paper. Oddly, it moved towards him, he wondered if yelling would make John hear him… _He_ had heard sounds from down the streets quite clearly while standing up there… the sound waves travelled far better up the walls than the other way.

He had heard John's panicked yells… his name… John had yelled his name.

God.

He felt hot liquid on his face again, just like he had felt while standing up there himself… The small sheet of paper landed on the wet ground and although he wanted to do everything that might stop John he felt the need to pick it up first.

It was covered with John's handwriting, and that was the only thing that made him not screw it up.

'I can't live with the hurt you did to me, by not trusting me and by being so cruel to make me watch you die and think you were dead. I want the hurt to end.'

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat, all that he had done with good intentions, to save John, to save his friends, had gone horribly wrong because of the way he had done it, and his dismissal of the factor named 'sentiment', because he had dismissed that vital factors as being not important…

He started to ran towards the hospital, he needed to stop this!

The moment he crossed the street the figure fell and smash to the ground in front of him, like a rag doll, the suddenness of the movement made him jerk back.

He had never been disgusted or afraid by broken bodies… or bodies at all, but this… this changed it all… _John'_ s broken body on the pavement.

This couldn't be, he had been alive and standing upright a few moments ago, how could his state have changed so abruptly?

… No… No… !

This can't be happening.

No…

Blood was all over John's face and creating a pool under his lifeless body.

He experienced the urge to try to contain it, but on the other hand knew the brutal truth was that even if it would stay inside, John's body was damaged too much for any chance of survival at all.

He felt nausea rise… if this was reality, he wouldn't be able to stand it any longer, he would _not_ want to stay… he could not live with… this.

Then it hit him… and it was even worse than what he had just witnessed… This was what John had experienced, like John's memories… just reversed… he was going through what John had been confronted with…

Oh god, _he_ was the one who had done it to him… by making him think he was dead and by good play-acting… Up to now he had even been proud of his performance, but now he was… disgusted.

Then a concept hit him. He knew it existed, but he had never experienced it like this. Of course he had stored how people described how things felt, like when he saw someone get hurt physically and he _knew_ it must cause pain, but it usually did not make him cringe, he just knew because he had stored somewhere which wounds caused which kind of pain, none of his own feelings too intense about it when he saw them on others… But he knew other people did this a lot, their empathy was more intense than his. People could jump into feeling-conditions with others, feeling for/with them.

He had never seen the use in that, what he felt and thought was just to strange for others and what others felt to strange for him. Like he had never really known was jealousy was, sure he knew it existed and he knew the symptoms, but he had never experienced something he'd describe as that feeling. It was just an empty shell of a translation.

There were more feelings like that, too, good and bad ones, which's concept he had problems to grasp.

He knew there were many feelings in his mind, but they were all so abstractly different from all descriptions of sentiment other people provided. It was a puzzle to sort out which of his feelings met the terms of others… he had been working on that particular puzzle since he was a small child.

But now it hit him that the term 'to empathize with someone' really meant, to think in somebody's shoes. He was confronted not just with John's shoes, but also with his own if the situation would be reversed… It was so much worse to fear John would die than to think he himself would!

Nausea rose. The intensity made his head hurt even more. He wanted to flee… but John had - by no means - a way to get out of this reality… so why was he thinking he deserved one?

He stared down at John's lifeless form and then felt his knees hit the ground hard… he remembered John touching him when he had lain on the pavement, desperately seeking for his pulse, had heard John's voice break.

Then the intensity of the horrible emotions made him wretch and in the middle of it everything turned black and awareness first exploded in dire hurt and then everything slipped away.

He didn't fight, he wanted the agony to end, he just surrendered… the bitter taste in his mouth and mind followed him into the darkness, but finally that also vanished into the nothingness of deep sleep.

 

….

 

_A/N:_

_*The stony path Sherlock went to entrust John with his needs are described in more detail in my stories 'Lessons in Friendship 4 – Enduring care' and 'Lessons in Friendship 7 – Needing something.'_

 


	16. Tuesday night – John's POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John receives a phonecall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.
> 
>  
> 
> For those of you who don't like Mary, just skip/ignore this chapter.

 

John returned to the kitchen and stopped at the table for a moment, not sure what to do. This was all a bit too much right now… he decided he needed a minute before heading for a drugstore and Tesco.

He fled to his room and sunk down on the rug in front of his bed, leaning against it with his face burrowed in his hands… he distantly felt them get wet. He just sat there, in a mixture of stunned and empathic hurting with the best friend he ever had; then his mind switched to sort through the events of the past two weeks.

This was all so much in such a short time… Hell, three weeks ago he had bought the ring and everything seemed clear… The recent events had turned his carefully balanced world upside down. After two horrible years of grieving he had just managed to get the balance back during the last few months, had slowly found the courage to start living again.

This was just too much for two weeks!

It was silly, he still feared he'd wake up any moment and find out he had been dreaming.

It was so unreal… and still hurt _so_ much.

So confusing… and Sherlock was hurting and confused, too.

He had to admit he was afraid… afraid there'd be more sinister things he'd learn about Sherlock's hiatus and what the other man had been through… and he'd insisted to be informed about them! He wouldn't allow Sherlock's inner wounds to fester and get worse, he knew the detective must be suffering from several of those after such an ordeal, even Sherlock, who could deal with every-fucking-thing, had them.

John had intended to find out what was wrong and work on restoring their friendship in the days of his stay, he had not expected it to be easy, but this… this was a mess!

He hadn't expected it would be a walk in the park, but neither had he thought it could be this bad and draining.

Almost every conversation they had had since Sherlock was back contained some sort of explosive or sore emotional content. Of course he knew this was a part of healing, to grapple with all the hurt and anger… But on the other hand he also just wished for some normal interactions or hours, that made them both enjoy their company and feel like old times.

He wanted to remember how things had been before the fall.

The hurt of loss that followed Sherlock's death had - in retrospect - tainted so many memories of their good times together in a bad way, _because_ of the way Sherlock died and the fact that he was gone.

He still hadn't managed to face many memories without those bad feelings and now it was additionally all hurting with betrayal, too.

The suicide had already felt like betrayal, like being left behind.

John knew he was about to really loose it… and realised he wouldn't go to Tesco anytime soon… He dragged the duvet from the bed and clumsily wrapped it around his shoulders.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he moaned in annoyance. He wasn't sure he was willing to talk… but when he pulled the thing out he saw it was Mary and decided to pick up. He gulped down his distress and cleared his voice.

"Hey," his voice was low and shaky.

"What happened?" Mary asked immediately.

"I made him show me the cause of his pain," John pressed out without introduction.

"And?"

John gulped once more, trying to keep his emotions in check once more.

"I… He was tortured… I…" John stammered and before he really knew what happened Mary made him tell her everything that had happened in detail.

He was glad she listened and comforted him, even tried to counteract him blaming himself.

Half an hour later she asked, "Where is he now?"

"Hopefully asleep… but more likely experimenting or… whatever."

"You're upstairs?"

"Yeah, I needed a moment. I wanted to go to Tesco, get some supplies and antibiotics."

"Maybe you should stay with him. This sounds not like the Sherlock you have told me about."

"Yeah, he's different… it's scaring me, to be honest. He's somehow… soft and different, I don't know how to describe it."

"You don't think it's PTSD, do you?"

"No, not yet at least. But he experienced one or more traumatic events and he's showing coping mechanisms…and he's - at least partially - denying them. I asked him questions to distinguish if he's suffering from the typical normal responses to trauma or if they are typical for PTSD. I mean… I'm not an expert, but by trying to live with it I leaned a lot… For example he's not showing signs of reliving situations, he's thinking about them, yes, analysing them, can't stop thinking about them, but that is totally normal after a psychological trauma, if _reliving_ them would occur and not fade within a few weeks I'll worry about a disorder…

"He told you?"

"Not as directly as I wanted. I asked him a few more other things and he answered me. He definitely has problems with the memories of that cellar and something else he held back. He definitely suffers post traumatic stress, but not PTSD."

John paused.

"I want to help him… I know how dark it is where he is right now. He won't trust anyone else… I just don't know _how_ to help him. I feel so useless and helpless… There's nothing that could comfort a Sherlock Holmes," his voice trailed off.

No, wait, there was at least one thing… the violin!

"I fear not only you have to cope with him being back, he has, too. Imagine being on the run for two years, doing everything to be invisible, chasing the most dangerous criminal and his goons for two whole years. Alone, no backup, no voice of reason to listen to… no doctor available…"

"God, he even told me 'his senses missed me'."

Mary laughed. "Oh, that's so cute…. Nice in fact."

"Yeah, he's trying to be nice… and he has apologised several times for… you know."

"Yes. … John, what you said earlier about him not caring for himself… I don't want to meet trouble halfway here, but isn't this a bit… borderline self-harming?" she carefully suggested.

"It is. Has always been, but maybe you're right, it's more than usual."

"He's not forgiven himself for the hurt he caused you. He might be punishing himself."

"That would mean he is hating himself for having treated me bad… That's a bit too much caring for… I mean he's _Sherlock_! I'm not sure he _can_ care as intensive as that."

"Oh yes, he can… And you told me he had cared about you before the fall… in his own way, but he did. Right now you're still angry and therefore think he doesn't."

"What makes you so sure he cares?"

"I sat on that bike with him."

"And?"

"It was… intense. When I arrived and showed him the message on my phone and he understood you were in danger… he dumped down his meal in the middle of the carpet and ran down the stairs with me."

"That's Sherlock. Totally normal."

Mary giggled and it made John's heart a tiny little bit lighter.

"He drove like a berserk, risky, on high alert… and like a pro…. Really, I mean down several stairs, through underground tunnels, and even up one of the stairs, it was the hell of a ride. Did you know he's that skilled with motorcycles? Came close to stunt driving actually… But for his skills he was really kind of nervous…. I held onto him and he was trembling, breathing fast… not just a bit… even his voice showed his distress. He was driving like mad, even reckless. He didn't care for his life and not for mine… Well, I didn't either that moment, but… what I want to say is… Gosh, you should have seen him dragging you out, he went into that fire as if the possibility to get burned didn't even exist. He pulled the wood, that was actually having flames all over it, away. He wore gloves, but actually he just reached in… That makes me wonder… have you checked him for burns?"

'Be assured, I will,' John wanted to say but all that came out was a wrangled sob, he pressed his thumb over the microphone so Mary wouldn't hear him again. He had shed enough tears for years to come and it was seriously getting on his nerves that he wasn't be able to control his emotions.

"I think the man loves you like a brother… probably more… and right now he has to cope not only with the torture, but with the collapse of the world he had planned to return to, because this world is gone… You moved on. He has to share you, has to adjust to the fact that you have moved out, has to cope with your anger, which he maybe doesn't really understand… He might still be so shocked about your rejection, that he's not yet able to understand you have forgiven him… and he's probably still sensing your anger, which makes him totally confused. Give him time to cope and show him you care and that you won't abandon him…"

John tried to get his composure back enough to speak, the truth in her words had fuelled his distress.

"John?"

"Hmm," he managed, but knew she heard how wet it sounded.

"Oh, I'm so sorry this is so hard on you, feel hugged…"

"Ta," John mumbled.

"John?… Do you need me to come home?"

"No… no… it's fine."

"You don't sound like fine… Not really."

"I will be. I just need a minute. Tell me about your day."

She did and it gave him time to regain his composure and resurface from his grief and shock. Half an hour later they said their goodbyes and John hung up.

He headed downstairs to check on Sherlock and decided shopping could wait.

The detective had not moved but was in a restless sleep.

John decided to watch some telly, eat the takeaway and sleep on the couch.

 


	17. Tuesday – Nightmares revealed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.
> 
> I had already decided with every re-reading of this chapter to delete it and go straight into Wednesday, but I found I couldn't. I'm aware this is not the best chapter I have written, sorry. It's a bit too emotional and too soft-boiled for my taste, but… to be honest, I'm too stressed right know to just make good decisions, so here it is… very short… Just wanted to underline John's understanding of Sherlock's state.

 

John woke up a few hours later on the sofa.

He blinked into the dim light of the standard lamp, which he had left switched on.

How the hell was Sherlock sleeping on this sofa at all? Of course he had slept here before, but right now it felt more uncomfortable than ever before.

A tiny moan registered in his brain.

Sherlock!

He sat up and threw back the blanket and was next to Sherlock seconds later.

"Sherlock?"

No response. The man was clearly dreaming, twitching and restless.

John switched on the bedside lamp and saw Sherlock was no longer on his stomach but had moved quite a bit on the bed, if the rumpled sheets were any indication.

The consultant's face was turned to the other wall, so John walked round the bed. He bent over the him and carefully brushed away the dark hair with his hand.

What he saw made him suck in air in surprise.

Sherlock's face was wet with sweat and… maybe tears?

Then it contorted and John had never seen so much agony on Sherlock's face before.

"Sherlock?" he whispered.

No reaction.

This felt familiar. John had woken him twice in the past days, dragged him out of obviously horrible nightmares that way.

Once more John found to wake him by just speaking was not successful. Even when he carefully tried to shake him it provoked no reaction.

But then Sherlock suddenly started to flail around, which made the doctor step back a bit.

"NO!… John… don't…" Sherlock's voice was a whisper, barely understandable.

John froze and listened.

"…Please… don't… no…" he mumbled into the sheets.

"Sherlock? I am right here…"

John had never heard Sherlock speak like this. The vulnerability and desperation audible in his voice made his soul ache.

What was Sherlock dreaming about?

The torture?

He gently pried away the blankets and pillows and to be able to see the other man's face. "Sherlock, wake up for me, please."

Nothing happened that indicated the detective might have heard him.

After long seconds he finally managed to unearth Sherlock's face, "Come on, wake up."

The detective's speech was slurred, and John barely understood him.

"Please… Don't jump, John… We can fix this… god, please…"

John's heart grew cold when he understood what Sherlock had said, it felt like his stomach was dropping, the sensation was horribly familiar.

Sherlock must be dreaming about John being about to jump from a roof for a change.

The realisation made him hurt in sympathy, he remembered how that felt like it was yesterday.

John's breath turned solid in his chest… He tried to gulp down his own panic.

Sherlock gave a tiny pitiful noise of shocked surprise.

This meant… not only that Sherlock was experiencing the hurt and horror and everything else the doctor had immediately before and after the fall, but it also said a lot about Sherlock's psyche.

The empathy that was needed to see the fall from 'the other side' needed a huge amount of care and interest in the well-being for said side.

Several seconds later Sherlock's face relaxed and he made a sound that came close to a silent sob.

John was sure his dream-version must have just jumped.

Alarmed, he made further attempts to try to wake the detective, but it turned out to be futile. So he took the other man's wrist in both hands and held it, not only to assure himself Sherlock was alive and with him, but also to monitor his pulse.

Suddenly John was overwhelmed with the whole spectrum of how deeply Sherlock must be regretting this, not only consciously, but unconsciously, too.

The fact that Sherlock was experiencing this event - unravelled in his subconscious mind - brought tears into John's eyes once more.

God, this was awesome.

He had not dared to believe that Sherlock was capable of this… the depth of the perception of Sherlock's feelings shocked him.

When he saw another tear run down Sherlock's cheek, he felt his own face burn with hurt and sadness.

Hell, this was really awful!

He had been angry and he had indeed wished several times in the past weeks and months that Sherlock would feel - or could get a taste of - how bad it had been for John to be carelessly confronted with the horror of watching his friend commit suicide.

But right now, seeing how hard it was on Sherlock, made him feel guilty for having had that wish… and for being cruel.

"Sherlock, wake up. Come on, we're home and safe," he tried once more, but the only thing that happened was that Sherlock turned away and dragged his hand free from John's grip.

The doctor had expected Sherlock's nightmares were about the torture, probably loads of them were, but this was about John being in danger of dying and that said a lot.

When he saw the pain on the other man's face about the idea that John had died, he wondered if he had looked the same while sinking to the ground, slowed down by the hands of strangers.

Sherlock made another slow gasping noise. John didn't dare to touch him again, or comfort him physically… he just bit his lower lip, waiting.

Sherlock needed help.

John knew how bad it was to be alone with bad memories and no one deserved that. Sherlock was the one needing comfort _now_ and he'd do this… he wouldn't let him go through this without company. He would be here, he'd do this for his former flatmate.

"Sherlock… I'm right here and I won't leave… You might want to wake up, now," John bent down and murmured into Sherlock's ear.

"Come on, relax. I'm fine… you are fine… we both are fine… open your eyes for me."

Sherlock didn't show any signs of hearing him.

.

Half an hour later nothing had changed, except that John had sat down on the bed next to the dreaming detective.

Sherlock was still deep inside his nightmares, no matter how John begged and carefully touched and shook him, which was odd. Sherlock had been hard to wake before, but this was definitely not normal.

The doctor thought about administering a sedative, but was sure Sherlock wouldn't take it very well, in the past some of those medication had only fuelled distress and caused more agitation.

"Shhhh, you're fine… I'm safe… we are home safely… at 221b… Just us… relax, Sherlock," John tried to sooth them both.

"Hmmmm….." Sherlock moaned and John wondered if that was finally a reaction to his presence.

"Everything will be fine," John mumbled, not sure if he himself dared to believe it, but he doubted Sherlock was hearing his words, he only needed to hear John was present and fine, everything else didn't really matter.

Sherlock had done quite a lot to get back to the life they had had, endured a lot, fought a lot, sacrificed a lot. After tonight, John found he had not doubt at all that Sherlock had mainly done all of it to make sure John was safe. And that he had expected - Mary had hinted at it - that he had expected to return to his former life, but it was gone.

John wondered how disappointed Sherlock must have felt when he understood he himself had moved on. Not even the slightest hint of appreciation for what the detective had sacrificed and been through, the only feedback had been anger, hurt and the refusal of even listening.

In one last restaurant Sherlock had suggested John had missed it all… Of course he had! It had almost killed him how fucking much he had missed it, but Sherlock hadn't understood; had not understood that he had missed it _so_ much he found he didn't want to live without it.

But there had been this tiny irrational bit of doubt that had kept him alive these two years, he still didn't know what it was, but it had been there.

Sherlock twitched, then drew a deep breath and when John wondered if there was any hope for relaxing sleep at all Sherlock exhaled slowly.

"John?" It was more a breath than a word.

"I am here, Sherlock… And I will _not_ leave," John took his hand and held it, not sure if he was overstepping a boundary or if Sherlock was awake enough to register him answering at all.

The only thing John knew right now was the hurt wavering across the room and his eyes started stinging again. He was so very tired of the world being so dark and weary… And Sherlock being alive was a light at the horizon he had never dared to hope for.  

But touching Sherlock seemed to have been the right thing because the other man visibly relaxed and a few minutes later he slipped into a deeper state of sleep.

John relaxed, too, though his soul hurt with understanding, and everything else he had learned tonight. Sherlock wanted him here, he probably needed him, but as usual was not able to express it.

John sat on the bedside for a long time after that, some more silent tears fell about the whole mess, reflecting all that had happened today.

In the early hours of the morning he returned to the couch.

Something had changed. He felt spend and exhausted with grief and all his various emotions, but - he was almost terrified to admit it - but crying over / with Sherlock's healing body had… changed something.

Sherlock's regret was difficult and painful, but it was so sincerely honest it also soothed something deep inside John's soul.

A tiny odd and carefully buried aspect of his soul, which had been sore for so long and that he had so desperately tried to ignore… that one had started to heal… started to get better.

Something had changed… for the better.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:  
> Thank you all who took their time to comment on the last chapters…. You made my day! And thank you to all who are still with me here and those who left kudos.


	18. Wednesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

John woke up when Sherlock put on the kettle. He hurried down the stairs to see how his temporary flatmate was doing.

"Oh, hi," he greeted Sherlock, who was slowly hanging several teabags into the tea pot. The events of last night had were clearly visible. His hair was dishevelled and John wasn't even sure if his eyes were open.

"Hmm," Sherlock answered.

John opted against asking how he felt, knowing what Sherlock's reaction would most likely be and his looks spoke volumes.

"Er… No shower for you today," John informed when Sherlock headed for the bathroom.

"Great!" Sherlock hissed, then changed direction and went to the living room table with the tea instead.

John went to have a shower.

 

When John returned fifteen minutes later he fetched the painkillers and put them in front of Sherlock, who ignored them. John sat down, too.

The consultant was sipping at his tea every now and then and reading the paper.

They sat in silence for a while, until Sherlock's phone chimed.

"Hey, is that a new case or maybe Lestrade, with new information about the last victim?"

The doctor tried to sound as enthusiastic as possible, but Sherlock didn't react, and finally John fetched the phone from the coffee table and tipped Sherlock's upper arm with it.

"Read it then," Sherlock mumbled.

John opened the text, biting his lips when it came to his mind that finding a new victim might translate for Sherlock as 'failure to prevent it'.

He grimaced when the message was indeed from Lestrade and informed them that a new body had been found.

"Take the painkillers."

"What?"

"Take the pill and I'll tell you."

Sherlock paused a moment, then - clearly unnerved - put the pill in his mouth and washed it down with some tea.

"Happy now?" he muttered.

"New victim found, will pick you up in 30," John read out loud.

Sherlock didn't move.

"Come on, get dressed," John tried to encourage the other man.

After a moment of hesitation Sherlock raised without complaining but without giving the impression he wanted to, either. His expression was empty and when he made a first step and swayed slightly. John gripped his arm.

"Oi… Sherlock?" He gazed at him, examining him as good as possible without touching him.

"I'm fine, thank you," Sherlock answered, a bit stunned. But he didn't move for several moments, which shocked John more than if he had pulled out of his grasp and reacted irritated.

"Hey, how about we try to make this a normal day without any difficult topics… we both need a break, can we do that?… You know, work on the case and enjoy it?"

The doctor didn't like the word enjoy in context with people getting hurt, but he wanted to show that he was eager to join him.

"The idea that joy exists is an illusion," Sherlock grunted.

He turned and John let go, his shoulders sagged in defeat.

"No _topics_ would be tremendously delightful, though," Sherlock added with exaggerated delight while he walked away, but his voice simultaneously carried sarcasm.

"I'll have a wash then," Sherlock continued and scuffed towards the bathroom.

 

Lestrade came up the stairs fifteen minutes later, John was eating breakfast and as soon as the DI saw John the greeting got stuck in his mouth.

"John? What happened? You look like death warmed over… You' okay?" Greg stepped nearer, the worry obvious on his face.

"Hi… Yeah, peaky!"

"That bad, huh?"

John just nodded.

"What happened?"

"I… He…, " but John still had problems saying it. He exhaled slowly, "…he's been tortured," he then blurted out, unable to keep his dismay inside.

Lestrade's gaze went through the room, trying to grasp the situation.

"What?…When?"

"Shortly before his return… His back is a mess."

John heard the water in the bathroom was turned off.

"We shouldn't talk about this now. He's depressed, in pain, and he'll be a hell a nuisance if we join you… The fact that he's not been able to solve this already is getting to him, in addition to all the other shit, I mean."

"Okay," the DI answered softly, "So we need to cheer him up carefully and as long lasting as possible."

"How are we supposed to do that? I'm at the end of my rope… kind of… I have no idea how to fix this."

"Have you slept since you're here?"

"More than him. Who's at the scene?" John changed topics.

"Sally, but no one else Sherlock knows, yet."

"Where is he?" Lestrade raised his voice to make his arrival public.

"Getting dressed," John answered.

The next moment Sherlock came out of his room, fully dressed in a suit he headed for his coat on the back of the door.

"Nice to see you finally managed to use the key," he greeted the inspector.

"Nice to see you, too, Sherlock," Greg answered.

"You're coming, John?" Sherlock asked without looking at them while wrapping the blue scarf around his neck.

"Yeah, 'course," John jumped up and into his shoes as fast as he could. They left the flat two minutes later.

 

Another two minutes later they were in a _police_ car heading for the scene.

John asked Greg to stop at the chemist and went to get antibiotics and prescription vitamins. The doctor was a bit angry at himself for not having managed to get them last night, on the other hand he hadn't liked the idea to leave Sherlock alone in the flat.

The consultant took the pills without making a scene.

The victim's small flat was overcrowded with a medical examiner, Donovan, and two other men. Someone tried to calm down a crying woman who seemed to be the best friend of the victim.

The dead young woman was on her couch, looking as if she was just taking a nap. The only hint that she was dead was her paleness and her artificial posture.

"Ahead of schedule."

"What?" Lestrade asked.

"She is dead for at least a day, which means our killer is not maintaining the same amount of time in between kills as before. Therefore the timespan was accidental or he changed his procedure… or it was never important."

"Yeah."

Lestrade ordered Sally to take the victim's friend outside for a break while Sherlock and John were inspecting the scene. Sally had an odd, maybe even shy expression on her face, it made John wonder if she felt as guilty as she should about her part in Sherlock fall into disgrace. John was still angry at her and maybe her gaze was on the ground because of his angry aura? Sherlock ignored her, acted as if she wasn't there.

The consultant detective went over the victim's clothes and looked at the insides of the blouse's cuffs; at the sock's font seams and finally felt for the straps of her vest with a single finger, he found the left one twisted.

Then he inspected the underside of the sofa, her computer, and finally the rest of the flat within twenty minutes. He was a blast of movement.

John had to admit he hadn't expected Sherlock to be able to hide his distress and exhaustion that good. He acted as if nothing had happened… Well, except for the extreme pale complexion and the really bad dark circles under Sherlock's eyes, which were not overseen by the DI.

"Will you two are alright?" Lestrade asked while watching Sherlock haste from one corner of the bedroom to the other.

"I'm not sure," John answered honestly.

"You _both_ really look like hell."

"I know. The night was quite hard."

"After such a revelation, I can imagine. Okay, just let me know if you need anything. I want to help," Greg answered softly.

"Thank you," John smiled tiredly and Lestrade understood that John trusted him, but was not able to talk about anything right now. This fact kind of fuelled his worry, though.

Sherlock whooshed past them.

"One more tablet user sharing her whole boring life with the world… Tablet is missing, though."

"So how do you know it should be here?"

"Can you actually think or at least keep up? Instead of just standing there… maybe pretend you try to work this out or at least…" Sherlock demanded but then stopped mid sentence.

"I hope to learn from watching you," Lestrade remarked with a hint of sarcasm in his voice, "Besides, usually you yell at us when we try to think while you are deducing, because we disturb your enlightenments by doing so."

"Are you making fun of me?" Sherlock asked with a bite in his voice.

"No, just glad to have you back," Lestrade retorted and that made Sherlock stop dead in his tracks, a frown on his face.

"You're getting sentimental?" he spat.

"I think it's my fair right to be a bit sentimental after missing your help on cases for two years, isn't it?" Lestrade teased friendly.

"Don't start!" Sherlock was clearly getting unnerved and John chuckled.

Sherlock stared at them for two seconds, than rolled his eyes and turned away with a flying coat.

"Bah!" he muttered in obvious playacted disgust and headed into the kitchen to continue there.

John and Lestrade followed, Sherlock smelled the kettle, inspected the fridge, the oven, the waste bin, and the recycling paper basket.

He then brushed past them into the bathroom, where he peered into every piece of furniture as well as every little container.

"Forensics need to go through the waste bins around this house… Neighbours, too."

"What are we looking for?"

"I don't know yet."

"Walk us through your findings, please," John urged.

"The victim was here for the last two nights, though our killer wasn't. He ate here but cleaned up thoroughly. Neat person, carried out the garbage, put new bags in the bins, likes instant pizza…"

"Instant pizza, is that the one where you just add boiling water and then it's finished?" Lestrade grinned.

"Oh, you know what I mean… those… disgusting things that don't even deserve the name pizza."

"If you don't expect to eat pizza it's not too bad. Now and then I like them," Lestrade answered.

"Then maybe you can tell me where this brand can be purchased," Sherlock held up a cardboard box that was clearly not from one of the 'better-tasting' brands, it looked extremely cheap.

Lestrade winced about the forbiddingly greasy and raw looking pizza depicted on the packaging. It looked like no one ever wanted to eat this if they had a choice.

"I wonder if the company is laundering money…" Sherlock studied the packaging.

"What?" Lestrade laughed in disbelieve.

"Clearly no company in their right mind would want to keep people from buying their products, the only explanation for a picture this disgusting is that they don't actually want people to buy it… there must be a reason."

John and Lestrade grinned.

"Yeah, we'll think about that later… a lot later… back to the murder."

"Yes, right… the murderer brought at least two extremely bad _frozen meals._ I doubt the victim was able to eat with the drug cocktail in her system, so I estimate the perpetrator was here for two days or evenings, not the nights, though, or he or she didn't sleep.

"What…?" John started.

"The cupboards are filled with organic and health food, no chance the occupant of this flat bought _those_ pizza. Check if nearby stores sell that brand, check for cashless buys, find out who bought two of those and when during the past week… Victim was dressed by someone else, dirty laundry is gone… The bed has not been slept in in days… and no one changed sheets recently… or if they did, they put on used ones… highly unlikely for a person who is otherwise as neat as our suspect is. We also need to check the other victim's flats for unusual food wrappings."

Lestrade brought a large evidence bag and put the paperboard inside, then labelled it with 'check for fingerprints'.

"That might be his first big mistake… or maybe hers."

"Before today you never said 'her', why now?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Sherlock, please," John said.

"Sorry... there are a few hints. The victim was not assaulted, she was treated and moved carefully, and… no, wait…" he returned to the dead woman and shoved both legs of her yoga pants upwards, then produced his magnifier from one of his coat pockets. He knelt down and went searchingly over her lower legs.

"There are some slight bruises on the legs, they'll be better visible in a few hours, made by relatively careful and small hands and shortly before she passed away… and there's another IV mark here."

The detective moved the leg not too gently and lifted it in an unnatural angle, so John and Lestrade could see. When John puckered his lips and raised his eyebrows in warning Sherlock carefully and respectfully moved the leg back.

"Not good, sorry," he muttered, not to John but to the body.

Lestrade narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Sherlock while John was looking at the puncture wound.

"Really small catheter, 22 maybe, probably to make the wound as small as possible… also means a really low flow rate is enough to make the stuff work."

"On the leg? Why on the leg?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock threw John a look, obviously waiting for him to take a closer look or to answer.

"Probably to hide the wound, or maybe…" John started.

"Yes, or maybe he didn't want the fact that he is drugging them disturb his vision… or the experience," Sherlock finished the sentence.

"In medical care it is used only when the arm or hands are wounded or otherwise not usable to insert a catheter. If you want them to be overseen easily by a superficial examination, this is also where you'd want to go," John explained, "None of the victims had any brushings around the site. Even a doctor who has done this a thousand times can not always do it without haematoma. Our suspect is skilled with this… or just lucky, or enough time has passed to allow the bruise to vanish completely… On the other hand, such a small gauge is not a good choice at that particular vein… Hmm… Maybe he keeps them until all marks are gone?… Haematoma most likely form after trying to _insert_ the cannula… That's odd… Hang on… No residue from the dressing…"

The doctor carefully smelled at the site.

"…or redness from removing the adhesive or any obvious solvents."

"Swab," Sherlock held out a hand and Lestrade looked around for the forensics equipment, when he saw the box he grabbed several tubes and then handed two over to Sherlock.

"Take one for us, too," Greg demanded, knowing giving Sherlock samples to take home might make him busy with experiments.

Sherlock swabbed the punction site thoroughly twice and then handed the tubes over to John, who labeled them without asking. Sherlock repeated the procedure and took saliva samples.

Someone knocked on the open door.

"Stay outside. We're not even close to be finished, here. Get the forensics from downstairs, please," Lestrade told the two young men who carried a stretcher with a body bag. They did not look happy but vanished after putting the gurney down in the narrow stairway laboriously.

"Anything else, Sherlock?"

John handed two tubes back to Sherlock, who stuffed them into his coat, and the other two to Lestrade.

"Not for now. Send me the details," Sherlock stood up suddenly and with a nod of his head greeted Lestrade goodbye, then vanished into the hallway.

John and Lestrade once more stood there, surprised about the suddenness of the exit.

"Er… Yes," John started, then blew his air out with his eyes raised to the ceiling with a hint of despair.

"Thank you, you were of great help, as usual… Call me if you need anything, okay? Or if it gets too much, or when you need some company," Greg patted him on the back.

"Thanks, Greg. Sorry about… you know."

"I know."

John followed the consultant into the hallway, where the gurney was parked mindless and John had to balance on his toes to get past it.

Sherlock was slowly walking past the waiting crews, ignoring them completely. John hurried to catch up with him and only when they walked side by side Sherlock started to look for a taxi. This time it took some minutes and they reached the main road before one of the famous black cars stopped.

 


	19. Thursday – More issues come to the surface

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

Back at home Sherlock indeed started experimenting on the samples and was busy for the rest of the day. Whenever John tried to speak to him he was told to leave Sherlock alone.

Later, the detective refused to eat dinner so John ate the second takeout meal from the night before alone in front of the telly.

Afterwards, he stepped in Sherlock's way when the other man returned to his microscope after working at the counter for a few minutes.

"Move," Sherlock grunted.

"Not until you take those," John held out the vitamins and antibiotics.

"Not now, I am busy."

"Yes, now!" John ordered.

Sherlock made a sulking face but pulled one glove from his hand and threw it into the waste bin, then grabbed the pills and downed them. The doctor held out a sports drink which Sherlock ignored, instead he went over to the sink and drank directly from the tap. Without another look he rounded the table on the other side, sat down at the microscope and put on a fresh glove.

"Good night, Sherlock," John greeted friendly before he climbed up the stairs to his room.

He set the alarm on his phone for 2 am and went to bed.

.

 

John had gotten up twice during the night, to check on Sherlock. The chemist was experimenting both times.

After his second check at around five in the morning John found he couldn't get back to sleep, he had tried for about half an hour but sleep eluded him.

Finally he stood up again and opened the door of his room to hear Sherlock moving around downstairs. He still craved for every single sound that showed that the man was alive, as for reassurance. John relaxed with the sounds of movement and proofs of life.

A few minutes later when John was again half asleep he realised that something else was still missing.

The violin.

Sherlock hadn't played a single note in John's presence since his return. John hadn't even seen the instrument anywhere in the flat.

Was it lost? Was this another reason for Sherlock's bad mood?

He decided to ask him first thing in the morning.

.

When John stood up in the middle of the morning Sherlock was nowhere in sight.

It was almost eleven o'clock, and John sneaked into the detective's room and spotted him sleeping, he looked relatively relaxed and in deep sleep.

John decided to go to Tesco for supplies and buy something nice for the upcoming dinners.

.

An hour later he came back with heavy bags of supplies.

The moment John entered the kitchen he heard Sherlock groan.

Hastily he put the groceries on the counter and went directly into the living room. Sherlock had moved to the couch during his absence but had fallen asleep there.

The detective's face seemed to be contorted in pain, he was softly panting in his sleep. "Mike…" his voice a thin whisper.

Who was Mike?

Sherlock didn't move, not even a tiny bit, but when John stepped closer he saw he was soaked with sweat.

"Sherlock?" John lowered his voice and tried to sound as calming as possible.

"Mike… Ge'meout," Sherlock sounded desperate now, he was whispering in a choked voice. Three seconds later he flinched… and flinched again.

John was immediately sure that Sherlock was dreaming of the torture.

"Sherlock, wake up! You're safe."

"Mycroft…" Sherlock's head jerked to the side, it startled John.

"Come on, wake up, this is a dream."

Would touching him be okay? It had been in the past.

He reached out from a secure distance and rubbed Sherlock's shoulder firmly.

"Hey, you're dreaming."

The moment he said the words, the doctor wondered if this might actually be not a dream but a flashback.

"Get me out of here… Please," the last word was what shocked John.

Sherlock had begged!

The desperate tone made John gulp.

"Sherlock, you're safe! Open your eyes."

John briefly stroked the other man's forehead, not only for a calming effect, but also to feel his temperature.

The skin was clammy and cold, as so often in the past days.

The gentle touch seemed to bring Sherlock back, he just opened his eyes, but after a moment of nothing else happening John wondered if he was actually awake.

Waking him before had been oddly difficult, he had wondered about that already last night. So this time he spoke louder but in a kind tone.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

The consultant blinked slowly and John sat down on the coffee table.

Though the man on the sofa seemed totally calm on the outside, John saw his pulse beating like mad on his throat and then noted Sherlock was holding his breath once more.

"Breathe, you're okay."

"You came back?" Sherlock's voice was rough and even deeper than normal.

John frowned in puzzlement and he watched the detective's eyes scan the room frantically.

After another ten seconds he sat up and dragged in a staggering breath which seemed almost painfully controlled.

"Where have you been?" John carefully probed.

"Me? Where have _you_ been?… I was here. You were not," Sherlock's tone sounded reproachful.

"I meant in your dream," he didn't expect to get an answer, but then the detective replied hoarsely.

"Serbia."

"Was it 'reliving a memory' or a 'variation of the events'?"

"Variation."

"Okay," John relaxed a bit, this was better than a flashback, "You want to tell me about it?"

"No," Sherlock mumbled, looking into his lab.

"Okay, what about tea?" John stood up and prepared the kettle, then unpacked some more multivitamin and mineral pills and returned to the sofa with another bottle of the sports drink.

"Here, you need some vitamins so your body can heal," he sat down on the table again. Sherlock had not moved, probably still a bit stunned from the nightmare.

The doctor held out his hand and Sherlock stared at it for a moment, then his eyes wandered up and met John's.

"Why are you doing this?"

"I want you to get better."

"What for?" Sherlock sounded so tired and so - John had to admit - sad.

"So we can solve crimes again."

John had hoped that would sound good to Sherlock but his expression stayed blank, his gaze wandered back to the colourful pills.

"What are those?"

"High potency vitamin supplement pills, B complex,… C+A…" he pointed at the pills he named "D… Magnesium… Calcium. I prescribe those hereby. You'll take one of each every day. You're malnourished and the healing is affected by that."

Sherlock looked like he wanted to reject.

"Hey…" John tried and carefully reached for Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock picked the pills from his hand slowly and dumped them all at once into his mouth, taking the offered bottle and washing them down with a tiny sip.

"More," John insisted, and Sherlock downed the whole bottle without even seeming to gulp, then he lay back and turned his back to John, which was probably a hint he was dismissed. John went to make some tea.

 

"Er… Still no showers for you," John informed once more when Sherlock headed for the bathroom some hours later.

"Great!… Will you be here when I come out?" Sherlock stopped with his back to John in the open bathroom door, waiting for the reply.

John frowned, that was kind of an odd question.

Then he remembered Sherlock's earlier remark, and that he had probably woken up and John hadn't been there. He had gone to do the shopping and he had absolutely forgotten to write a note.

Had the detective panicked? Thought that John had left?

Uh god, no! Not good! How could he have been so dumb?

Was that why Sherlock had dreamt about being abandoned or not helped?

Had Sherlock thought that he had fulfilled his earlier threat to leave and never come back?

The doctor realised that this threat must have hit Sherlock a lot harder than he had intended it to do. Back then Sherlock had stopped rooted to the spot and hadn't even done a single step in any direction while John was in the bathroom.

It must have _really_ shocked him to be confronted with the idea that John would leave permanently.

 _Shit_.

He definitely needed to remember that issue in the future.

He knew Sherlock buried his hurts, the more severe they were the deeper he buried them. He knew Sherlock wasn't able to let his pain go, or out, or whatever would help it heal. John assumed his former flatmate just didn't know how to do this, he hadn't learned.

Maybe the chance that things tended to come back as nightmares was even higher than normal because of that fact?

His own nightmares about the war and the fall were still quite present and he knew exactly how devastating it was to experience them.

Sherlock hadn't moved, was still standing there waiting for an answer, his posture had tensed up with every second the doctor had remained silent.

Not good.

John hurried over and carefully touched his shoulder.

"Hey? I'm sorry… I went shopping without leaving a note… You woke up and I wasn't there," John waited for Sherlock to react but the other man was just standing there, tense and silent.

"Did you think I left for good?" John stared at his back, a bit helpless.

"I will _not_ leave, Sherlock. You're not alone with this."

Now he was glad Sherlock was facing the other way, not sure if he'd been able to say this otherwise.

John heard his former flatmate gulp and then he drew a slow, deeper breath. Then he stepped into the bathroom, with hanging shoulders and without turning around.

The only thing John knew at that moment was that all of this sucked and that he had just thrown some more shit into the fan.

Sherlock didn't close the door, he gave it a nudge that made it shut a bit, but not hard enough for it to close.

John stood there and stared at the door. He was doing that a lot lately, staring after Sherlock in puzzlement, he realised.

This was not the first time Sherlock had acted different than usual. This was new… John noted that they both were.

His reason was to listen to Sherlock, determine where he was, hear what he was doing, make sure that he was safe.

Had Sherlock the same reasons?

This was a bit ridiculous.

He puckered his lips in frustration, then turned away to get a cuppa.

When he had just sat down at the living room table and prepared some toast for a late lunch he heard Sherlock's phone chime. The ringtone was new, he wondered who's it might be.

Sherlock passed him a few minutes later and opened the text message.

"Excellent. Anderson just informed me that the remains of the fire were transported to Scotland Yard as soon as they had cooled down, now the forensics team is finished with them and if we want we can examine them ourselves now."

Anderson? The man had his own text alert sound now? Interesting.

"Since I consider myself quite educated when it comes to ashes I'd like to comb through them myself of course. Come on, John."

John relaxed a bit when he heard a tiny hint of that old excited and enthusiastic Sherlock in the tone.

"Oh, okay."

 

An hour later they were in the labs. It was full of different tables with different piles of ashes and rubble from the fire, stored according to the size of the parts of residue. They were all labelled and Sherlock started to go through the notes a young lab assistant had handed them.

"Anderson texted you?" John asked with a frown. The forensic scientist had not shown up when they had been upstairs with Lestrade a few minutes before, informing him they had arrived and would go downstairs next.

"Since when does he texts you?"

"Since I informed him about what truly happened and he had a meltdown. He seems reluctant to make up for the part he has played in ruining my career temporarily."

John sighed but was pleased about the term 'temporarily' since it showed a bit of positive thinking.

"Can we please change subjects? I'm still not too fond of him and right now I'd like to concentrate on _this,_ " Sherlock continued, "Besides, maybe Lestrade just simply ordered him to inform me."

The consultant's tone showed he was only half listening, staring at the pictures of the cooled down fire while it was still on location at the church.

"Okay, I'll go get some coffee."

Sherlock's head jerked up fully alert now, "No!"

"What?"

"You will _not_ go and get coffee!"

"Why not?"

"I need you here."

"You'll be able to do this without me for five minutes."

"No."

"Oh, come on, you'll go through every little bit of this rubbish, not asking me anything, ignoring me completely all the time. No one is here, you can talk out loud without people wondering at all. Besides the memories of this event are not my favourite. My presence is not really needed. And you'll insult my inability to observe within five minutes. I want some coffee before enduring that."

"Fine," Sherlock stood up and closed the button of his jacket, picked up the coat he had just put down and then headed for the door.

"What are you doing?"

"I thought you wanted to get some coffee… so we're going to get coffee," Sherlock was obviously unnerved - and through the door before John knew what was happening.

Puzzled, he reached for his wallet and followed Sherlock.

"What is this about?" he asked, hurrying after him.

"Can you remember _how_ you have been tied up?"

John needed ten seconds to understand Sherlock meant before he was put in the bonfire.

"I think they never tied me up, the drug kept me out of it, so there was no need. I was unable to move," John realised that the consultant was ignoring the topic from before on purpose.

They returned with two large cups of coffee from a store nearby a few minutes later, Sherlock had refused to use the vending machine in the hallway.

 

 


	20. Thursday evening - Mycroft's first visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

When they arrived home later they had found out nothing of interest. Sherlock was getting more and more frustrated with the outcome and the lack of clues.

"What does he want now?" Sherlock murmured while unlocking the front door.

"Pardon? Who?" John wasn't following.

Sherlock didn't answered but climbed the stairs even more unenthusiastically than he had moved before.

Upstairs, the doctor followed Sherlock into the living room, already thinking about what to cook for dinner.

"I'm too tired for this. Good evening Mycroft."

Before John had registered what was happening the consultant had went to his room and closed the door.

Great, so it was his task to deal with Mycroft?

"You really got nerves showing up here. What do you want?"

"I wanted to see how my brother is. I was worried."

"What?" John felt his anger boil up.

The anger that had boiled inside of him for over two years now. He hadn't seen Mycroft since a month after the funeral when he came to the flat and explained to John that the rent was paid for the next year and that he needn't to worry. John had not spoken to him and Mycroft had noted that he was near to burst with furiousness.

So John had just turned his back and had retreated into his room, exactly as Sherlock had done moments before.

The doctor had been so angry and lost and hurting back then he'd have either punched him or he'd have reached a point where a meltdown was inevitable, and none of those options would have been a good idea, so he ignored the older Holmes, showing his disgust and how unwelcome the man was that way, and Mycroft had understood.

"You really have nerves! Your inept performance with Moriarty was the reason all this happened!" He yelled now, starting to run up and down the living room to vent some of his agitation.

"He'd never have been forced to fake his suicide if you hadn't… used Sherlock for your intrigues with Moriarty! You used him like a cheap pawn…" John ranted on. "I'm not sure I any longer believe that you really worry about him, or that you care about him at all," John was shouting at the older Holmes now.

"He's having nightmares about you standing by watching when he was beaten and not helping him when he was tortured. How could you… " John's voice left him, his rage robbing him of his speech. He pressed his lips together and shook his head.

Fighting his temper he stumbled backwards and then sat down heavily into his armchair.

Mycroft stood next to the coffee table, just stood there, not moving, leaning on his umbrella. He stared into the ground with the same expression on his face he had had in his study when John had confronted him about being the cause of Sherlock's dilemma hours before Sherlock had committed suicide. John finally understood that Mycroft had been the one who had shared quite a lot of intimate information about his brother with Moriarty, which led to the situation in the first place.

Back then Mycroft had in fact been distressed with this confrontation, _his_ way of distressed, not ending sentences and grinding his teeth.

Mycroft felt bad about it and he deserved it! But there was more, he deserved to be strangled for not telling him that Sherlock was alive!

John blew out his breath and closed his eyes to collect himself and keep himself from sharing that last thought with the room or acting on the idea.

When he opened his eyes a few seconds later he saw - on the peripheral of his field of view that Sherlock was standing in the hallway between his room and the kitchen. When he looked at him he found Sherlock was also looking to the ground.

"I am sorry, John," Mycroft spoke in a slow and low voice.

It made John speechless. He had expected piercing and threatening remarks or assumed Mycroft would utter how embarrassing this outbreak in front of him was.

"What?" John whispered hoarsely.

"I am sure you understood me, but in case you need to hear it again, I'm willing to repeat myself. _I am sorry_."

John turned his face towards the windows and closed his eyes once more, concentrating on breathing and letting go of the anger.

Mycroft sounded as if he in fact was sorry and his body language transported the same message, which looked utterly odd. John had never seen him like this.

Damn it!

John couldn't believe it, this was almost spooky, two Holmes brothers staring wholes in the ground.

Mycroft's shame was justified, but what was Sherlock doing?

"I need some air!" John stood up, fetched his jacket and was out the door fifteen seconds later.

.

An hour later he returned to the flat, hoping that Mycroft's precious time had run out and he had left, but he was disappointed.

Mycroft was sitting in Sherlock's armchair and sipping at some tea. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

"Where's Sherlock?" John greeted the British government.

"He left, he didn't share his destination."

John frowned.

"Why are you here?"

"You should be paying more attention, I already said I am worried…," Mycroft sounded a bit impatient.

"Sure."

"…. about Sherlock. He's not what I would call his 'normal self'."

"Yeah, and who's fault is that?"

"I am well aware of the mistakes I made, but no matter how large my regret is, it won't change the fact that Sherlock is not in the best of health and I wanted to offer assistance in case you knew anything that might help him."

"Really?" John slightly tilted his head to one side.

"I don't know what my brother told you, but it was not my fault he was tortured, in fact, if I hadn't gotten him out he would probably still be in there."

"What?"

"Oh, I see, he forgot to tell you he was caught leaving after… Well, maybe he had his reasons… It was quite a bit of work 'sneaking' into the organisation and recovering him."

"Er… could you start a bit more in the area of the beginning. What was he doing there?"

"Naturally, he told you nothing, except that I watched him being tortured."

"Well, why don't you enlighten me, then?"

"This would take about six and a half hours and my dear brother would probably _love_ to tell you the details of his heroic work himself… Besides, I only know half of it, as you know he does not really like to share information with me on a regular basis, especially not those he isn't fond of… And of course, _I_ have to deal with the results."

John sighed.

"He's not only… difficult since his return, he has been quite tiring the past two years! We had several disagreements and he switched back to some rather obnoxious behaviour patterns he had given up after meeting you. I need to point out, that his depression is nothing that developed in the past few weeks."

"I…" John was a bit uncertain about that new piece of information.

"I've seen when he was bad before, but this… I think I'd even call it… sick, with distress. He has lost a lot of weight, not only because he didn't care to eat, but at a certain point his body repeatedly refused to keep anything down. I couldn't convince him to see a doctor," Mycroft looked really worried, John had to admit.

"After our successful escape from Serbia he collapsed, due to exhaustion, malnutrition, and pain. He wasn't able to tell me what exactly had happened. My private doctor took care of intravenous nutrition and kept him asleep for days, otherwise he'd probably… Well, he's physically better now, but the whole thing was a world-shattering experience for him. I was worried 24/7 that he might relapse. He started smoking, though… I hoped the danger had passed when he moved back in 221b."

Heavy silence sat in the room when the older Holmes paused for a long moment.

"I think you should be aware that the thing that kept him going the past two years was to know that he had saved you and the others, and that one day he would return to you," Mycroft informed, now his usual self again.

John gulped, this was a bit much, to be informed like this about Sherlock's thoughts.

"Sorry, but I need some more information. You went in there to get him out?" he changed topics, he needed to let this sink in.

"Of course. I needed him back in London. I couldn't let him continue with his _holiday_ while there was a threat of a terrorist attack on London, could I?" There was sarcasm in Mycroft's voice now.

"Holiday?… He was tortured for god's sake!"

"Yes, it was kind of an inadvertence. He went into the lion's den and although he managed to fulfil his task they spotted him on the way out."

"What does that mean?"

"He broke in and they nabbed him," Mycroft impatiently translated into colloquial language.

"And you got word he was caught," John ignored the light insult.

"Obviously."

"Why didn't you get him out immediately?"

"I got him out as fast as possible without causing international tensions that might cause a war."

"What?"

"I worked as fast as I could, but gaining the trust of that class of criminals wasn't exactly the easiest thing I've ever done."

"You watched him being tortured!" John suddenly yelled again, but Mycroft was much to professional to flinch this time.

"I have to admit - to my regret – that I needed to, in order to get us both out safely. Please try not to punch me, John. I did my very best to watch out for my little brother but he quite frequently kept me out of the loop, too, and as you might know it isn't always easy to find him if he doesn't want to be _disturbed,_ " Mycroft paused.

"Go on."

"I shouldn't have let him get into a situation like that, but he ignored my objections, as usual. To be honest, it was very stressful to endure watching him being treated like that, and it somehow… harmed me to do so. But if I had blown my cover by interfering too early we both would be dead by now, and I figured this would do no one of the three of us any good."

"Three?"

"You, me and Sherlock. I'm sorry I didn't take better care of him. I tried to get him out sooner, but it was impossible."

John pinched the back of his nose, a bit lost for words. The out of character regret in Mycroft's voice was a bit disturbing.

A phone chirped and the older Homes read the message immediately.

"I have to go. If you or Sherlock happen to need anything don't hesitate to inform me. Goodbye, John."

With that he was out of the door.

John stood in the middle of the living room, not knowing what to think.

Had Mycroft really just spilled his guts in front of him? And where the hell had Sherlock gone?

Exactly five minutes after the door had closed behind Mycroft John heard keys in the lock.

He was making tea and had just decided he was not eager to cook and that he'd make some sandwiches.

Sherlock entered the kitchen without a word and headed for his room without getting rid of his coat first.

"Where have you been?" John asked carefully.

"Following you having a walk," Sherlock answered in a tone that told him he should have known because it was the only logical course of action.

John rolled his eyes.

Of course he had, where else would he go.

Sherlock closed his door after himself and John stood there, narrowing his eyes in understanding. He had registered before Sherlock had barely left him out of sight during the past week, but during the last few days it had either become more obvious or had intensified. Today it had been… foreboding.

"I'll make some sandwiches, want to watch some telly?" he raised his voice.

And was ignored.

Sherlock didn't show up for the rest of the evening, but when John re-entered the kitchen - after the documentary he had watched was finished and after he had called Mary - he saw the door to Sherlock's room was no longer closed tight but ajar. The room behind it was dark and John hoped Sherlock was getting some sleep, he definitely needed it.

 

 


	21. Friday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.  
> .  
> Thanks to all the great and kind readers who take their time to read, leave a comment and kudos for me, you're great.

 

John woke up, when a text message arrived. It was half past nine.

'You two are up to see some possible new crime scenes facts?' Lestrade asked. It was a bit odd that Lestrade now texted him about it, but only for a second. Of course the DI wanted to know how they were before starting something. Sherlock would not like this.

'Please call him in. JW' John answered, then decided to nap a bit longer.

 

Unexpected stress woke him again when Sherlock stormed into his bedroom, shaking him awake. He was kind and careful, a whirlwind, urging him repeatedly to get up immediately. When John reacted too slow he started to search through his bag for clothes.

"Bloody hell, get out. I can dress myself!" John yelled, half joking half in real distress, kind of delighted but also disturbed by the thing.

Sherlock flinched and stopped immediately. In fact he looked kind of ashamed, it was actually a bit funny. He had rarely seen Sherlock ashamed, and even then he had more asserted he was than looked like it.

The next moment the detective fled the room.

John frowned, before the fall his flatmate wouldn't even have stopped, let alone being impressed by him yelling, although John had told him repeatedly not to just storm in. Explained that it was be the appropriate thing to do to knock and wait for an answer. Well, obviously that interaction-rule had been deleted… and the trying-to-understand-jokes-routine was obviously also gone.

Well, hadn't worked at bit anyway… or had he _really_ sounded angry?

John felt frustrated, in fact this reminded him so much of the normal version of Sherlock that he had liked it to be woken like that - a bit.

 

Sherlock realised his behaviour was rude when John yelled.

Immediate retreat.

He hurried to get out.

John was angry, he had probably stepped over a boundary, but which one?

Seeing John sleep… no, John was usually not shy about sleeping.

Roused too early?… He had slept almost eight hours.

Stepping into his room?… He had knocked and when there was no movement he feared something had happened to John… and had stepped in.

He should make tea, counteracting bad manners with good ones.

Sherlock hurried to start the kettle.

This was unsettling. Why?

He was eager to get to the Scotland Yard… Had wanted to discuss the things he had figured out during the night – wrong term, he needed _John_ to listen, now that he had him back.

He had found at least three theories of… but John was no longer as eager to listen to him as he had been in the past, was not praising his deductions any longer.

He had missed it for so long to hear John say he was doing excellent work, but although John was back he didn't say it any longer.

These were the feelings of a child, starving for praise, he realised with disgust.

When had he become so dependent on human affirmative responses?

He felt even more ashamed for longing for them.

Stop it!

The distance that John kept was irritating… not nice.

Or was he the initiator himself?

John had told him _he_ was the one not opening up and not sharing information or thoughts… and now he _wanted_ to share and John didn't want to listen.

Oh, he was an idiot, this was different.

Sharing information about his deductions for a case and sharing his thoughts and sensations about himself were different classifications of information, he had mixed them up. But why was John more eager about the one than the other? Right, the one was work and the other one was personal… stuff.

He had become sloppy tagging things right and several parts of the databases had gone to pot during the past two years, especially those about interaction with people he _wanted_ around. No need for that during his 'holiday'. No one was there and the taste of their absence had a nasty mint green tinge. Which he had tried to avoid to sense as soon as he had found it, it was just too frustrating to feel it. Distracting. He couldn't afford that if he planned to come back home alive.

Over time the databases had grown attached temp-folders, a dump of collected information that had not been sorted in correctly. The whole databases collection had never been in so much disarray ever before in his entire life.

Usually being rejected didn't concern Sherlock much… it had been his state of being for too many years of his life, the normal condition. Then there was John… and it had changed things.

It changed everything.

Perception was different, he had classified the term new after he had known John for only a few months, made new databases for John, because John's differences to normal people were too big to be integrated in the normal databases.*

Why had this little interaction made him so uneasy, John yelling?

He _needed_ to keep John… This thought kind of mentally itched and hurt constantly since Bart's roof.

Making John angry so that he'd leave was not an option. In the past there hadn't been possible bad scenarios that played out in his mind as consequences of bad interaction. The option that John might leave hadn't existed.

How foolish he had been.

He just hadn't had those before meeting the army doctor… he had nothing to lose.

Now they were there, and they mattered, and decisions were made because of them.

He was… afraid of this group of topics, they were still so new and complex… Human interaction on a whole new level…

To lose John again had turned into a personal horror scenario. When he had dragged him out of the fire the feeling had been paralysing, irritating, unsettling… must have been fear, then.

He knew it was. He hadn't known if John was already dead or just unconscious.

The idea that they might have been too late had made him nauseous, even in hindsight it still did.

When John had finally opened his eyes while Sherlock was feeling for his pulse he had a hard time to keep himself upright. He was glad he had been kneeling, otherwise he'd have fallen to his knees. In the past two weeks he had quite a share of being afraid of losing the other man's presence again.

He had cared for John's well-being for years, nevertheless it was still kind of irritatingly new, like new shoes… Experiencing care felt odd, not uncomfortable or bad, usually he liked exploring new things, but relationships had never been nice to explore – until John.

John had made it easier, he explained, he was patient, he didn't avenge on Sherlock when he struggled to understand human nature. Neither did he make fun of him; he said what he thought, not holding back, not acting with fury - maybe anger sometimes, but he was never mean.

He couldn't lose John again… racing to the fire to get John out and see the stack burning had burned something his mind, the area was sore and up to now had not healed a bit.

It had been a shock how frightened and stressed he had felt when he realised John was in the heap of wood.

The kidnapping had happened absolutely out of the blue, taken him by surprise.

Who had known Sherlock was back? They had probably wanted to hurt him by taking John, but who knew?

This was much too familiar - someone playing games like that, use one to get to the other. What if Moriarty had faked his death, too?

No, couldn't be! He was dead.

Sherlock should have inspected the weapon for tricks and the corpse for a real hole in the head..

Dumb!

But there was so little time and his thoughts had been somewhere else at that moment. The memories of the roof caused pressure to creep over his chest, making breathing more demanding.

"Hey…?" John's voice was soft and low, it jerked Sherlock back to reality.

He stood in front of the kettle, which was boiling hard. Before the automatic had a chance to switch it off John did, then turned back to the detective.

"You're okay?" John's eyes scanned him.

He turned away, "Fine."

He felt naked with his thoughts so wildly running through the surface of his mind.

"What's going on?"

Sherlock hesitated, not ready to even think about talking to John.

"Sherlock, tell me… I'm sorry, I yelled. It was not _really_ that bad… I was startled awake and trying to come to my senses… I didn't mean to sound angry… Remember, that when you're roused like this as a soldier, it usually means something _really_ bad is happening. It send my adrenaline pumping… Please, don't do that as long as no one is in immediate need for medical attention."

Sherlock still tried to come back to reality, though John's apology was kind, something else still felt 'off'.

When his eyes met John's he noted this fact had not escaped the eyes of the doctor, who now switched into some other mode. With one hand he turned a chair and with the other carefully dragged Sherlock towards it.

"Sit, I'll make tea."

But instead of doing so, John stood beside him and Sherlock could feel his gaze on him.

"Tell me where your mind has just been… in which memories were you wandering?"

Voice casual, faked.

Would John make his threat true and leave if he didn't tell him? He had said he wouldn't leave.

Sherlock's first impulse was to overplay this with a joke or laughing at something but… John would be angry if he'd dragged this into derision.

Since when was he so inhibited?

"Sherlock? Where?" John sounded kind, understanding but ordering.

"Bonfire," Sherlock admitted and watched John's reaction. It was the only thought that had crossed his mind he could put into words. The others were… he couldn't summarise them, there were just no right words. It was too complex, and… wild.

"Alright, what aspect?"

Sherlock hesitated, unsure what the other man wanted to know.

"What moment of the events exactly?" John specified.

"Realising you were inside. Jumping off the bike, running to the fire, not seeing you, dragging you out."

"That must have been quite bad," John sat down opposite on the other chair, "Were you reliving the thing or analysing aspects of the events?"

"Analysing."

"What did you deduce?"

Would John have used the word 'feel' instead of 'deduce' with any other person than him?

Sherlock wanted to do something else than talk about this… anything else was okay. But before he was able to stand up John had foreseen his action, his hand got hold of his upper arm.

"What aspect?"

"The Mindpalace… it got… There's damage…"

Sherlock saw a hint of… consternation or something on John's face, or maybe nervousness? Did that mean he had said the wrong thing?

He immediately tagged the topic 'Keep this quiet'.

"Sherlock, look at me? Don't shut the door in my face, come on. What kind of damage?"

Sherlock shook his head. Keep this quiet. He now wondered why he had said this at all. He knew there was, but this was not related. It had jumped him from behind.

Why had he said it? It had been an impulse, he now regretted to not have trodden fast enough.

"Have you slept tonight?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"How many hours did you sleep last night?"

"Nil."

Sherlock could see in the doctor's face that he was… something? Disappointed?

"And the night before?"

"Two on the sofa while you were… shopping."

Shame for being caught in the act of dreaming accompanied that information. He registered his mode of speaking had changed into _sharpening consonants_.

Not good, too much information about his mental disarray displayed by that.

"Bet that was not really sleep, wasn't it?"

Damn tags. He should try to mute them, but he had tried so often in the past two years, never worked. Where was the use in trying it again?

Sherlock saw no need to answer his former flatmate.

"You didn't eat at all yesterday."

"Had a coffee," Sherlock disagreed.

"Hff, that still does _not_ classify as eating."

John fetched the meds and the vitamins and Sherlock took them with a sip of water that he also offered.

"You're trying to work yourself into total exhaustion?"

Was he?

John didn't seem to expect an answer.

"Well, so we'll carefully get some nourishment into you today," John threatened.

Great! That thing again. He was not hungry, his stomach was uneasy enough, eating would be nasty. Why didn't John get that? Eating would make him much worse.

"Here."

A cup of tea appeared in front of his face. But instead of the nice smell of earl grey or something decent it… er… chamomile.

"You can have some nice tea after this one is gone… and I had a quick look at your stitches."

Switched to full doctor mode.

Sherlock nose sniffed at the tea without him having it allowed to do so. His mind scrunched up _it_ 's nose at his transport's nose's autonomy.

He rolled his eyes about his noses and John's idea of caring for his stomach.

 

They arrived at SY half an hour later and Lestrade surprised them with the fact that three missing persons had been reported last night.

Since the time distance to the last murder was right Lestrade feared that one of the persons was indeed taken by their serial killer.

"This one looks as if it fits into our suspect's typical prey system," Lestrade pointed towards one of the files open on his desk.

In the back of the room Donovan waited and looked uneasy.

Sherlock sat down and started studying the files, not caring to take off his gloves.

"I have some other things to do, guys. Let me know when you're finished."

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked.

"We have a suspect in another case, I need to observe the interview," the DI informed and headed for the door.

"You're sure it's a good idea to leave them here, in your office, on themselves?" Sally bickered.

"Yeah, Sally. Leave it alone," Lestrade jostled her out of the room.

"Read that file first," Sherlock ordered.

"Oh, sure," John sat down, too and started reading.

 

Another half hour later they had both read all three files, not that there was much in them, yet.

Sherlock opened the office door when Anderson passed by.

"Where's Lestrade?"

"Down the hall. Stay here, I'll see if he's finished," Anderson offered and Sherlock saw John raising his brows, probably because Anderson was kind of friendly.

 

 

....................

 

A/N:

_* See 'Lessons in Friendship 1', 'Lessons in Friendship 5', and 'Handle with care' Chapter 13, for more detailed explanation how I think Sherlock's databases work._


	22. Friday afternoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

Five minutes later Sherlock had gone through Lestrade's desk out of boredom and John had nagged him how rude that was, when the DI entered his office.

"Gone through my desk already, I suppose?" He asked and Sherlock didn't even bother to deny it; but Lestrade rolled his eyes, grinning.

"I was bored…. I want to see the three flats!" Sherlock stated without introduction.

The DI hesitated a moment but then agreed.

"Okay. I have a team who is ready to keep the most-likely-victim's flat under surveillance."

"Why not all three?" John asked.

"Not enough resources, would you believe? There's this really big smuggling thing going on and most of the men are busy with that one. The superintendent was sure it should be possible to figure out the most likely victim easily. So I need to make a decision which one it will probably be and that is one of the reasons you are here. To tell me which one _you_ think is most likely the right one."

"Why ask us when the decision has already been made?" Sherlock asked.

"How do you know that?"

"Shit," John muttered.

"Well, the decision is not made finally, but they are pretty sure which one they want to surveil, it's …."

"The veterinary student," Sherlock stated.

"… the bank clerk," Lestrade finished simultaneously.

"Great!" The DI rubbed his hand over his face and sat down at his desk, "So I have two options here, going against the choices of my team and the superintendent, who - by the way is a - strong supporter of the 'bank clerk' idea, or listen to you."

"That's ridiculous," John insisted. "How can they confront you with such an decision and why does the superintendent has anything to say in this? "

"Well, the man has his own view of how things are supposed to work. I tried to explain to him that I don't want to make this decision, but… Well, he didn't listen."

"Tell us why, Sherlock?" John wanted to hear the reasons for the choice.

"Yeah, please," Lestrade added.

Sherlock stood up, "Will try, after I have seen the flats."

"Okay," Lestrade agreed and fetched his car keys.

 

The first flat they inspected was the one of a young woman, Isabella Marren, she was last seen two days ago. After only six minutes in the flat – John had looked at his watch – Sherlock informed them that she is fine and with her parents.

"What makes you think that?" Lestrade asked.

"Which team was here before?"

"Look…" Lestrade tried, expecting there were insults ahead.

"Fire them, they're idiots."

Sherlock fetched the landline phone and pressed redial and then switched on the speaker. They heard it rang on the other side.

"Who's there?" a young woman answered.

"This is Sherlock Holmes and who are you?"

"Why are you using that phone? It's not yours."

"I assume you are Isabella then, and you saw your own number calling?"

"Why are you there?" she sounded distressed and her voice was trembling.

"For gods sake, tell her we are the police," Lestrade ordered.

"I'm not the police, as I have been told repeatedly," Sherlock retorted.

"I'll call the police," the young woman threatened.

"No need, they are already here. You are Isabella and are you at your parent's house?"

"Why….? What are you doing in my flat?"

"You were reported missing by your neighbour and since even your friends didn't know where you were and you didn't come back, they finally reported you missing last night."

"Oh… I.."

"Your father had a heart attack and you went right home to your parents house and with all the sentiment and sitting at the hospital your forgot to tell anyone… and you forgot your phone's charger in your flat. Since you're a student at the University of London and you work only Monday and Tuesday no one there missed you, yet."

"I… yes," she stammered, John could hear her shock and the stress in her voice.

"Give me the phone," Lestrade held out his hand and Sherlock handed it over.

"Miss Marren, I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard, take care of your family. We'll leave your flat soon. Where are you now?"

"At my parents house in Weymouth."

"Alright, please call me later today at Scotland Yard to get things in order. I'll give you the details then. I assume you need some time to recover a bit from this. And please inform your friends, they are really worried."

"What was your name again?" she stuttered.

"Lestrade."

"Yeah, of course. I'm sorry to caused so much trouble."

"It's okay, things like these happen. We're glad to find you're safe and okay. Hope your father gets well soon."

"Thanks, bye."

Lestrade put the receiver back on the phone and they stood there for a moment in silence.

"Good, very good," John just stated, wanting to carefully praise Sherlock's abilities, he hadn't done that in a long time and it felt good.

"Okay, who's next?" Sherlock turned away and headed for the door.

"We'll wait downstairs," John informed Greg and followed.

"Jap, I'll lock the place, be there in a minute," Lestrade sighed.

 

They drove to the second flat, which was in the north-western area of London.

Sherlock didn't say a single word during the ride.

Finally John asked, "Will you explain how you deduced that?"

"I'm sure it's quite obvious."

"Do it anyway, please."

"Phone charger on the table with things a person would take along when leaving, nowhere near a wall socket. Why would she put it there? She wanted to go somewhere for more than a day but finally forgot it. Work schedule on the fridge, university schedule there, too. Address of hospital on a sheet of paper on the nightstand, bed in disarray. Clearly, she was called by relatives in the middle of the night, close relatives, otherwise they'd waited until morning. She wrote the hospital's name down but forgot the sheet when she left, too. Quite a sloppy and messy character, as one can clearly see in every aspect of her flat, not draggled and clean though, chaotic person. Room number also on the note, cardiology ward at the local hospital."

"What? How do you know that the number in on that ward?" Lestrade looked as if he did not believe a single word.

"Been there with my mother visiting a relative when I was seven. He died soon after that, heart attack."

"Oh… sorry," Lestrade looked into the rear-vision mirror in the windscreen, he was driving and John and Sherlock were both in the back.

"Pressing re-dial was a blind-shot, though. Chances were high she had spoken to someone completely different than her parents since she was roused by her mother at night. But since she was a sloppily character she might have called her mother back right after they had hang up because she had forgotten something, or maybe it was not being sloppy but being emotionally stressed out with her father's health that made her forget vital things."

"Okay, good work," Lestrade praised.

"Oh, please!" Sherlock's tone indicated more than a little disgust, "Don't do that when things are this easy, it's insulting. I'm not a child in need for cheap praise."

They spent the rest of the ride in silence.

 

The second and third flat were not that easy.

Everything looked as if the inhabitants had just left for work or other normal every day activities, nothing out of the ordinary.

Sherlock searched thoroughly for any clues at all without speaking.

A long time later they were back in Lestrade's car. Sherlock still kept his mouth shut and finally Lestrade decided to ask right away.

"So which one would you put under surveillance?"

"The veterinary student."

"You said that before we saw the places. New information, stubbornness or what your guts tell you?"

"I never do what my intestines tells me," Sherlock stated, a tinge of offence in his tone.

"Oh yes, you do!" John disagreed, "And I have to admit I trust your hunches more than some people's facts!"

"What?" Sherlock screwed up his nose in disbelieve, "I don't have hunches. I never guess, I observe!"

"So which observation convinced you it was the student, then?"

"Location. Her flat is in a location where no one else can easily peer inside the windows from the outside, top floor and all; in contrast to the clerk's flat at least, which is first floor and surrounded by other buildings. The student's flat is also equipped with window blinds and the other buildings are more than ten meters away. Most of the clerk's flat's walls are not even three meters away from the adjacent buildings, the space is barely large enough for driveways to the backyard buildings, crowded area, not uncommon for this part of the city. The unshielded windows can be peered into from six to eight of the neighbouring flats, the house has no blindings on the outside. The curtains are cheap and almost useless at night when there is light on inside," Sherlock explained, "Though I wonder why a veterinary student can afford a flat in that area of London without sharing and the clerk lives in these humble surroundings."

"But are there any information that contradicts the facts, so I can use it to make a point?" Lestrade wanted to know.

"Not besides what I just explained, which I think is fairly a strong fact."

"Not for the superintendent," Lestrade muttered, regret in his voice, "Blimey… what do I do now?"  
"It's quite obvious I think," Sherlock stated.

"What are you up to?" Greg wanted to know when the consultant wasn't elaborating immediately.

"You monitor the flat of the clerk and John and I the one of the veterinary student."

"You know a good restaurant nearby?" John asked jokingly.

"No, we'll use your car. I never before did surveillance from a car with you, could be fun," Sherlock put on an exaggerated grin. He had done this without John in the past years, and had wished for him to be there. This was the chance to actually do it and he wanted to overwrite the experience with a new one where John was in fact really present.

"You mean like in an FBI-movie?" John teased.

"Always wanted to do that! We can eat in the car and read boring novels and…" Sherlock stated, sounding like an excited child.

Lestrade laughed out loud about the silliness and John rolled his eyes.

Well, if there was the slightest chance this would entertain Sherlock and make him happy John would do it.

"…listen to ridiculous country music radio stations."

"Okay," John agreed, "Sounds like a plan…. Wait, you hate country music! How about some violin concert music stations instead?"

"Don't be ridiculous, there are no violin music stations, John!"

"You know what I mean, classic music stations, then."

"Hmmm…."

"Where is you violin by the way?" John asked, reminded of the topic by this.

"In the flat, where else would she be?" Sherlock stated while he felt John's intense gaze on his profile.

"I don't know. I haven't seen it in a while."

"Why do you ask?" Sherlock turned his head an looked directly into John's eyes, observing every single reaction.

"Just curious," John stated, "So is this official or are we doing this…" he tried to change the topic, clearly aware Sherlock was kind of agitated with the subject matter.

"You better not tell a single soul!" Lestrade hurried to inform.

"Right," John assured.

 

 

**Saturday - Early morning  
**

 

John and Sherlock indeed spend the whole night across the street from the veterinary student's flat.

Nothing happened, no one came, no one left, no one even neared the door. They were more than bored in the end.

In the early hours of the morning John and Sherlock returned to the flat, exhausted, drained and unnerved.

The consultant ran up and down the living room citing facts about the case merely two minutes after their arrival.

"Sherlock, you're no use to the victim if you work yourself into total exhaustion here. Go get some rest and tomorrow we'll re-evaluate the stuff together. Come on."

John had fetched Sherlock's meds and offered them to him.

"I'm not in the mood. Go away."

"Sherlock, this has nothing to do with _mood_! You need to take the damn antibiotics!" John grumbled after following Sherlock through the flat for almost six minutes. He cursed Sherlock's stubbornness once more.

"Go away."

John stopped suddenly, Sherlock had just handed him a pressure point. The doctor hesitated to use it at first but then decided to be a bit reckless.

"You really want me to go?" John asked loudly.

Sherlock stood rooted to the spot, he seemed to only now understand the phrase he had used unconsciously.

John saw him tense up.

"No?" Sherlock stated, careful at fist, "No," he repeated.

"Okay, okay," John sensed the distress building up between them.

"Sherlock, why don't you fetch the violin and play a bit. It would do us both good. You always said it helps you think and I… I kind of miss it. Play for us," John tried to encourage him.

He really longed to hear it again, and he was a bit sorry for using Sherlock's sore spot moments before.

"No," Sherlock shook his head, sounding a bit shaken now.

"Why not?" John tried to keep his tone as friendly and encouraging as he could and stepped closer.

"No," Sherlock breathed.

John eyed him closely.

Not good! Sherlock's breathing was speeding up.

"What is it?" John asked slowly.

"NO! Not now, John!" Sherlock turned away.

He tried to reach the bedroom to hide his rising distress.

"What's happening?" John followed him.

 


	23. Saturday early morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

Sherlock felt it coming.

Gasping… he was gasping for air.

He knew it was pathetic and he definitely did _not_ want to be seen like this.

Escape to bedroom, _now_!

He was spinning down a mental void, trying to stop the fall he knew was coming.

"Oh for god's sake, leave me alone for a bit."

He was breathing through his teeth now, trying to calm down.

It didn't work. Something seemed to slow down his legs, made his breathing harder… Time changed pace.

"Sherlock,… just tell me what you are experiencing," John followed him down the hall.

The doctor wouldn't let this go until he knew what was happening, Sherlock realised. Since he had problems figuring it out himself this might be a problem. But he tried, for John… and in the hope that he'd be left alone if he did.

"Nothing that was… is certain any longer. Unreal," he breathed.

"Slow down. Come on, sit down."

Where? On the floor?

The floor seemed to vanish beneath him. Orientation was slipping away. Everything was in danger to be just gone. The feeling of mental free fall was unsettling.

What is living?… Feels so unreal… like life is an illusion. Was he even really here?

All those people who do their every day life are just faking reality, there's nothing but cool empty space.

How can they believe the concept of joy even exists?… And what makes them believe it is real?… It's just an illusion for those that are easy to take into the lie. There's nothing but devastation and shattered illusions once you have insight in what life _really_ is… Nothing to lose any longer.

"I can't do this… I can't…" Sherlock stopped in his doorway. The thoughts had made sense a moment ago, while he had them, but it felt so utterly not like himself, it made his state even worse. He shouldn't think about these things. He felt disconnected from his body, numb.

"Sherlock, you are scaring me," John was right behind him, an anchor in the dark.

"I… no wait… I think I know what you mean… Your life feels like that at the moment, right?"

Had he said any of that out loud? God, no.

"I'm with you… I know how this feels… I know there's this constant question of what reality is… It is a really perilous place… but that doesn't matter right now, for the moment you just need to stay with me… just keep going."

Perception of John's words was delayed.

"Concentrate on breathing. Relax, and let me make decisions for awhile… Just let go… I'll manage. Easy."

"No. Go away," Sherlock turned around and blocked the door to his room by putting his hands on the wooden frame, trying to get his breathing under control. The wood under his hand felt grounding.

Was this the only way to preserve his sanity right now? This was probably a panic attack, and he knew John knows the feeling. Should he go with what he suggested?

"You need to breathe, Sherlock," John ordered, reaching for his shoulder but Sherlock did a step back to avoid the touch.

"Just calm down," John raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"You… why… you are… What for?" Sherlock frowned.

This conversation was so messed up with loose ends he couldn't fix it.

He needed to focus his mind to get through. He had done this before, in Baskerville, using his brain and make deductions would help him focus.

"It's normal to have panic attacks after what you've been through. Just tell me what happens. This feels ugly, I know, but it'll pass, and we just need to wait until it does."

Should he believe John? Follow his lead?

He failed to start a chain of deductions and thinking was becoming more and more difficult, sluggish. So he took the easiest route, he answered John.

"…connection getting thinner and thinner by the minute… I… John… this is embarrassing…"

On one hand he wished the world would just go away, the hurt just end, on the other one… no not-feeling the agony anything any more… no hurt, no embarrassment, but nothingness sounded like dying… surrendering would mean death. The feeling of drowning became more intense.

But then something happened, something he wasn't expecting, reality shifted.

"Sherlock… I need you to rest. You have been on your feet for two days. Sit down on the bed."

"No… no lying down!"

Distress blossomed.

"It's okay. You don't need to lie down, just sit for a moment."

Sherlock sat down on the mattress.

Indeed, he felt dizzy and shaky.

"First… You need to trust me and let me help. Breathe slowly and regularly."

Sherlock did, John's hand hovered over his shoulder, the almost touch felt like another anchor to reality.

"Good," John sighed, "Can I touch you?"

What was that question really about?

"No," the pure idea made a distant struggle wind up his spine, silvery and painful.  
"I know you're feeling quite bad, but just ignore it… for now. Concentrate on me," John suggested.

Sherlock did not react, didn't do anything, he couldn't.

"Okay, where is it?"

"Where is what?" Sherlock's face was a mask.

"The violin, where is it?"

"What do you want her for?"

Worry was increasing now, he needed to protect her. Couldn't reveal her hiding place. She needed to be safe. He felt adrenaline rush through his system.

"What does one usually use a violin for?" John's tone was pressing and Sherlock felt something not recognisable hushed over the other man's face.

"You can't play, so what for?"

What would John do? He seemed angry again.

"I won't try to play it," John assured and headed for Sherlock's closet, that must have been where he had last seen it.

The adrenaline gave him strength enough to stand up on shaky legs and he managed to block the closet door with his hands.

Why did John want the instrument? Hurt her? Hide her from him?

He needed to protect that fragile work of art from any anger… And John seemed a bit angry now… or something that felt negative at least… Maybe he was just stressed out with Sherlock's distress?

John gently pushed past him, looking around the room, he was glad he had hidden her under the bed, but the relief was short-lived. The doctor rounded the bed and looked there first.

Too obvious, he needed to find a better safe place for her.

John took the case out and put it on the bed, before Sherlock could interfere.  
He snapped the case open and Sherlock's blood froze when John reached in.

John was agitated, but when his fingers took the small wooden instrument out of the case they were skilful… the hands that had repaired fragile arteries and sewn muscles… they were just holding her.

Sherlock didn't dare to move, John had her horizontal on both hands and stepped around the bed.

The consternation must have been written all over his face because John's expression softened and he spoke in a soothing voice.

"It's okay, I'll just hold it…"

"Her," Sherlock whispered.

"What?" John sat down on the foot of the bed.

"This violin is female… so it's 'her'," Sherlock explained

"As you like," John just sat there, holding her carefully.

Relief flooded his system, she wasn't in danger.

Then a memory rushed into his muddled mind, of another scene with John and the violin. _John leaning against the headboard of his bed, the violin in his outstretched hand and on the bed next to him… John's gun, lying next to the violin… John had clearly been crying._

_The picture hit him like a thunderbolt._

Sherlock felt the same nausea creep back into him he had felt when he had first seen the surveillance camera's footage about two and a half weeks ago.

He felt suddenly cold and it was harder to breathe again, he did a step backwards. The intensity of the memory quite a shock.

"Sherlock, what is it?" a whisper in the distance.

He couldn't tell John he had seen the footage, no chance.

"Sherlock, can you hear me? Talk to me!" John stood up and Sherlock was dragged back into the present, the mental picture faded a bit, but left a nasty aftertaste.

He did another step back, hit the wall with his back.

"What spooked you, now?" John asked kindly.

Sherlock just shook his head, unable to even try to find words. He felt dizzy, his back hurt, his throat hurt, his head hurt.

"Sherlock, you're worrying me…"

John held out the instrument, offering it to him.

"Play."

Sherlock leaned against the wall heavily, fighting the unsettling sensation that threatened to overwhelm him slowly.

A moment later a sharp pain in his tailbone made him wince.

He had slid down the wall.

Embarrassing…

He blinked, disoriented, and saw John place the violin back into the case with the greatest care, then stepped over to him.

The doctor crouched down in front of him, a kind expression on his face.

"Sherlock, what's going on?… What is it?… Talk to me."

Stunned and still in panic mode Sherlock thought about answering but his mind was blank… except for the wish that this would stop… Just stop!

"Don't…" he pressed out, distantly feeling his hands shake on the ground next to him.

John reached out, slowly picking up his right from the floor and feeling his pulse.

Sherlock let it happen, suddenly to exhausted to move. The doctor's movements were calm and steady, a sharp contrast to the swirling colourful chaos his mind was.

"It's alright, I just wanted you to play," John muttered.

Everything felt really heavy right now and John's speech seemed much too slow.

"No need to panic… Sherlock, are you about to pass out on me?" John asked and Sherlock could clearly sense he had just switched into doctor mode. Concern was now visible on his face, his voice full of suppressed worry and false calmness.

How could he come to such an absurd idea?

"No!" he had intended to make the absurdity of the question quite clear with a strong voice, but instead it came out as a hoarse croak.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to cause you any distress by touching her… I just longed to hear you play and I thought it would help you calm down… and… easy, easy…"

John caught his hand that was fumbling for something to hoist himself up with.

Was he looking _so_ distressed that the other man felt the need to comfort him?

Indeed he felt utterly miserable and…

"Sherlock, you need to lie down. Now."

No, he definitely did _not_ want to do that!

A sick feeling intensified and before he knew what was happening he felt John's steady hand slide around his neck and then it cupped the back of his head, another hand appeared under his armpit.

What was that supposed to mean?

He was slowly tilted sideways and lowered down.

Nononono… no…

Black sports started to appear in his field of vision and before he had time to struggle against the foreign movement, his breathing became a lot harder to accomplish.

Blinding silver spikes of heat pressed onto him from all directions, mind and body.

A distant touch of a hand on his head.

He was suddenly wet with cold and old biting sweat.

He was on the floor, his jaw clenched.

"Easy… Shhh… easy."

Was the last he heard before he greyed out.

 


	24. Saturday late morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine, as everyone here should know.
> 
> *Trigger warning*: intense suicidal thoughts ahead, skip this chpater if there's a chance that such things might trigger you!

 

John was watching Sherlock's motionless form.

The detective had just slipped into sleep a few moments earlier, finally. The last half hour had been dreadful.

Sherlock had collapsed in the middle of a panic attack.

What had caused it? Something had started it before they entered the bedroom and then something else had happened that had kicked him into shutdown a short time later. He seemed overwhelmed with a storm of emotions and his inability to deal with them, the distress was too much on the already exhausted man.

When Sherlock had staggered back towards the wall and leaned against it, John had made a full stop.

This was not like Sherlock.

Sherlock did _not_ lean against things.

He seemed disoriented with some onslaught only he could see.

Then Sherlock had slid down the wall, agony on his face, which was also totally not like the detective… he was usually very good in hiding pain or distress, but this, this seemed to have racked him physically or mentally, John wasn't sure… And the worry about this being visible on the outside made the doctor switch into professional high alert-mode.

The moment Sherlock's face had paled and John saw the syncope coming he had carefully manhandled him into a supine position.

Only seconds later Sherlock's eyes had rolled back. John provided first aid, raised his legs and monitored his vitals constantly.

He only left him alone for a few seconds when he sprinted to get his emergency medical bag.

When Sherlock hadn't regained consciousness after four minutes he decided to call an ambulance if he could not wake him within the next four minutes.

Finally John rubbed his knuckles over the other man's sternum, it was not the nicest way to make someone react but this took too long.

Sherlock had opened disoriented eyes and was still distressed, John doubted he'd remember later.

The doctor then carefully and gently poured some sweet isotonic drink down Sherlock's throat.

The other man calmed down a few minutes later, with a heap of blankets under and around him and several pillows to make him more comfortable on the ground.

Since John doubted they'd make it to the bed without injuries and there was no way he could lift Sherlock on his own he didn't try to move him. Sherlock was still not fully conscious and dizzy.

It took some time until Sherlock slipped into sleep, it turned out to be the restless sort and John was ready to wake the other man once the nightmares would start.

At least for the moment he was resting and John watched him, wondering what he could do to help Sherlock.

What could possibly soothe _this_ particular individual? Despite all their time together and all the injuries John was not sure about anything any longer, so much had changed.

Damnit! How could he make this….?

Sharp footsteps behind him made him jerk, gasping with surprise. He was half on his feet when he recognised the intruder.

"Mycroft? Can't you knock?"

"What happened?" Mycroft sounded actually stressed; his voice was low.

"Hell of a panic attack… He passed out from the stress, vasovagal reflex."

"I see."

"Why are you here?" John whispered.

"I was informed…"

"Informed?" John was in front of Mycroft now, dishevelled and trying to get a grip, "Could you be a bit more precise?"

"I… _saw_ him collapse and I came to see if he's alright."

John ushered him out of the room and left the door ajar.

"What?" John barked as soon as they were in the living room and the words had sunken in.

"I'm sure you are aware his bedroom is under surveillance."

"I was not! How can you disturb his privacy like this?… How dare you…?"

"There's nothing my brother needs privacy for and besides, if he wanted the equipment gone it would have been disposed of two years ago."

"Shit! Are you telling me that room has been under constant surveillance since…"

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying… since Moriarty broke into the crown jewel vault to be precise… until you finally moved out… reactivated when Sherlock moved back in."

"Oh god…" John moaned, sinking down heavily into his chair. He was well aware of the horrible nights he had spend in Sherlock's room in the weeks after his 'demise'.

Had Mycroft seen him in there? Vulnerable? Crying? Desperate?

John suddenly felt really ashamed when he remembered even more bad moments he had gone through in that room, one in particular he had hoped to be able to forget forever.

"You…?"

"I'm sorry, Dr Watson, but I have to admit the answer is 'yes'."

"What? To what question?"

"I indeed saw every single moment you spent in that room," Mycroft revealed, a hint of compunction in his voice.

"Jesus…" John buried his face in his hands.

This was _so_ not good!

"To be honest, I was worried about your well being, but Sherlock was against putting a device in your room, so there were only three, one in the living room, one in the kitchen and one in his room, in addition of course to those that were put there by _other_ parties. But I am sure Sherlock removed those."

"You had this flat under surveillance the whole time!" John yelled.

"I'm sure that keeping eyes on you two is nothing new. As I said: I was worried… And - let me say it this way - if it saved Sherlock's life that I saw _him_ overdosing and was able to prevent _his_ death by interfering in time due to the devices, would you be grateful for them? You'd think they were worth the interruption of privacy, wouldn't you? What makes you think it is different the other way round? They are here to protect you John, and they did."

Although this was a very good argument John was still angry.

"What? They did? When?"

"Never mind. I came here to find out how my brother is, but due to the fact that we're here discussing nonsense he can't be that bad, right? Please explain what happened."

"Something trigged a panic attack, he passed out, he's sleeping now. I'll monitor his condition closely and I'm trying to figure out how to help him."

"Oh, now that you mention it, he had a… panic attack or… something a few days before he 'jumped on you' in the restaurant," Mycroft headed for Sherlock's room.

"Wait."

Mycroft stopped, "I want to see him, I'll explain in more detail after I have."

The older Holmes went into the room and knelt down next to Sherlock. He scanned the room and his restless sleeping brother.

Sherlock was on top of several blankets and now on his right side, with his feet towards the door, his breathing was still a bit too fast and shallow but he was clearly asleep.

The next moment John raised his eyebrows when Mycroft stroked the hair back in order to see Sherlock's face properly. His hand rested on Sherlock's hair for a moment and the gesture was so intimate and caring that John felt like an intruder.

Then the older Holmes felt his pulse and adjusted the blanket before he stood up again.

John stood in the door, this was definitely not what he had expected. He had never seen Mycroft act so gentle and obviously caring, though the man's face had kept his emotionless expression the whole time.

When Mycroft raised again John heard a hissing, at first he thought it came from Sherlock but he was still fast asleep. Since Mycroft must have made it then, John wondered if the man was suffering from pain in his joints.

John turned back to the living room when Mycroft came towards him.

"So, what happened when he came back? He said your physician took care of him."

"He did. My brother was in a dreadful state but he couldn't be convinced he needed medical attention. Therefore my physician sedated him, otherwise he'd probably shown up on your doorstep immediately, bleeding all over your carpet."

John rolled his eyes about the remark, "So _how_ did the doctor treat him?"

"Stitched him up, administered antibiotics and gave fluids. After a few hours it became quite clear my brother was not only in physical distress. He cried out in his sleep several times. We tried to medicate him to make him rest peacefully, but it was not working well."

"He had abnormal reactions to sedatives before."

"I know, he was agitated. I'm sure you're quite aware my brother sometimes becomes a bit confused with this own emotions when they hit him. To some he is not used, has often no idea how to handle them. He passed out in front of me after he had seen the footage, maybe from the onslaught of his sentiments."

"What footage?"

"You on his bed with the violin and the gun."

"Oh god!" John panted, feeling suddenly as if he couldn't breath. Leaning back in his chair, he rubbed his hands over his face.

"He saw that?"

"Yes."

The memories of that particular day were hazy and John was really ashamed that somebody had seen him in a private moment like that.

.

_On that evening he had entered Sherlock's room._

_He had been in there several times before, crippled with grief and the need to feel Sherlock's presence somehow._

_A few minutes before, he had woken up, shaken by a bad dream, it was the middle of the night. He had dreamt that Moriarty was in the flat, had threatened Sherlock._

_Heart pounding, John had reached for his weapon and secured the flat, no one was there._

_His flatmate's room looked the same it had before, messed up by the police investigators. Dirty laundry at a stool, experiment in the corner, used books open on the floor beside it, another unfinished book at the nightstand._

_John bit his lip fighting tears again when he wondered what Sherlock had looked like reading in it._

_He felt the weight of his gun in the pocket of his dressing gown. He carried again since Sherlock's death, unable to feel safe anywhere any longer. He knew carrying the bulky object around with himself inside the flat was kind of pathetic. It was usually not loaded, but the ammunition was in one of his pockets. Except right now it was._

_The PTSD had come back full force and made his life a living hell once more. Sherlock's bloodied body on the sidewalk had triggered old memories and created a full load of new ones… all-day things constantly reminded him of the Fall, triggers once more springing like rampant weeds._

_Polaroids of the events were flashing into his consciousness at random intervals all day and all night, torturing him with the memories they started, again and again and again._

_Quite often he spiralled down into reliving the seconds after Sherlock had fallen in brutal clarity, technicolor and slow motion, with all the sounds and smells. He was forced into helplessly watching and not being able to change anything, reliving his shock, the panic and the hurt again._

_The aftermath of the flashbacks left him disoriented and shivering in new arisen terror._

_He had stopped leaving the house._

_Now, he stood in Sherlock's room, feeling like he was choking on the grieve or on suppressing it._

_When his gaze fell upon the violin case on the food end of the bed - he had brought it in here a few days before - a hidden door opened and a wave of mental agony hit him with unexpected force._

_He gasped for air with the impact of it. He'd never hear Sherlock's graceful fingers produce the sounds he had learned to love. Never again._

_Trembling fingers opened the case and stared at the instrument, neatly stored in the velvet padding, with the bow, rosin and spare strings._

_Violent sobs started to shake him and he didn't even try to sustain control. He sagged down on the edge of the bed._

_Was there any chance that it would stop to hurt every minute of every single day? And would he have the strength to survive until that day?_

_What would Sherlock say if he knew John sat on his bed sometimes and that he had to press his hand over his mouth to stop the sobs surfacing every other time?_

_Now they oozed out of him again and he had no energy left to fight them._

_Damn it ._

_He wanted the hurt to stop._

_Just stop. He couldn't go on like this. He was loosing his bloody mind._

_He hunched over and wept once more for the best friend he ever had._

_It lasted an hour before he raised his head again, numb and exhausted. His vision was distorted from his swollen eyes._

_The violin case was still on the foot end of the bed. He sat upright and dragged the case nearer, took the fragile instrument out of the case. He had rarely held it before._

_Whenever Sherlock left it lying around he hesitated to touch it, it was kind of a private object. He wasn't sure why. Sometimes, it was as if it was an extension of Sherlock's arm, at least the skilfulness with which he used it was as if it belonged to his body._

_Maybe it was a bad idea to touch it now._

_But he hurt too much to care for something like that right now, when he held the small neck and felt the stings under his finger he wondered if it had felt like this to Sherlock, too. He had expected the violin to be heavier… it felt fragile._

_He lay down on his side and rested the bowed instrument at an arm's length next to him and stared at it… all the times he had listened to Sherlock play, it was so… emotional and honest… Now it's silence was unbearable. Again, he felt tears on his face and tried to ignore them._

_His gun shifted because of his movement, the side of the dressing gown was dragged down his back by the heavy object, John fumbled for it and placed it on the pillow two feet away from his head._

_He touched the strings, they were tight and when his fingers moved over them it made tiny noises. He didn't dare to plug one, afraid it would make him have a full meltdown to hear the sound._

_All the times he had cursed out loud when the music had disrupted his sleep at half past three in the morning or the squeaking sounds when Sherlock was composing and stopped in the middle of a sequence before trying some other tones. That hadn't been fun, but nevertheless he wanted it back!_

_He sat up to blew his nose to be able to breathe properly for a minute, then laid back on the bed with his hands over his eyes._

_He was tired… so very tired._

_Tired from a lack of sleep… tired from the ugliness of the days, tired of hurting and tired of everything else._

_So tired, he wanted it to stop._

_Just stop._

_He stared at the two objects next to him. A thousand thoughts were suddenly chasing each other, in the maze of agony and grief his mind was nowadays._

_It could be so easy. Immediate relief from all his pains…_

_He stared at the heavy black metal object._

_Then dragged it nearer and his fingers moved over the surface, probing it's structures._

_So familiar and so solid._

_The end of his pains..._

_So easy._

_It was tempting._

_His forefinger went over the sharp edges of the substantial barrel._

_For the first time in his life he was honestly and with his whole heart considering to use it like this. End his agony._

_Was there anything that was worth going through this every day?_

_Enduring life? What for? Where was the point?_

_No._

_No point._

_He wiped the wetness from his face with angry fists._

_He just wanted the hurt to stop._

_Stop!_

_But… something was preventing that he picked the thing up again and blew his brains out._

_What?_

_What was it?_

_He lay there, now once more shaking violently… staring at the weapon for another half hour._

_In the beginning he was asking himself for the reason of his hesitation but later it was as if his mind went numb with all the distress and pain, he was distantly aware a new headache was forming._

_When it reached a level that made him nauseous another twenty minutes later he stumbled into the bathroom and threw up. There was only bile, nothing else to bring up, he hadn't eaten all day._

_Maybe it was not only the headache that had made his stomach turn. Hanging over the porcelain bowl he realised he was a bit afraid of his own thoughts. He had never been this close to actually consider killing himself on one hand, he was not a person who liked the easy ways, but on the other hand the ease this option brought felt disgustingly good and soothing._

_John wondered if this was how Sherlock had felt right before he jumped. The calmness and the cool that followed the knowledge that it will be all over in a second and would never hurt again._

_He stumbled into the kitchen, this was probably one of the moments his therapist had mentioned where he needed to call for help._

_He wouldn't call her, she'd mess this up even more._

_Dizzy with pain and his mind's agony he downed two of the sleeping pills she had prescribed for emergencies and some ibuprofen for the headache, then stumbled to the couch and switched on the TV._

_Distract himself from all this shit for some time, rest…_

_The stuff was fast and nasty, it switched him off within twenty minutes and he welcomed the chemical darkness as it rose._

.

John switched back to the present.

He kind of couldn't believe it.

He wanted to kick Mycroft's bottom for having seen his, for invading his privacy, and then some more for not having prevented Sherlock from seeing it.

 


	25. Saturday late morning and afternoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gattis or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

John was quite angry about the breach of privacy but the fact that Sherlock had seen it suddenly fitted several things together about the previous events.

He needed to hear how Sherlock had reacted to the recording, therefore he suppressed the anger and the shame, opening and closing his fists repeatedly.

"What happened then, when he saw the footage?"

"Er…"

"Mycroft, tell me!"

"As I said, he was emotionally distressed."

"Yes, and?"

"I think this was the moment where he first saw and realised that he had almost destroyed the thing he wanted to protect the most, by ignoring what impact grieve and sentiment would have on you. It shook his very core…" Mycroft hesitated, maybe because John buried his face in his hands in desperation.

The doctor understood what kind of a shock if must have been for Sherlock that all he had endured to make John safe again had come so close to be lost and in vain because the detective had underestimated a tiny thing he had not deduced correctly or failed to consider: John's platonic affection.

"Eh, there is another thing I might want to add, but don't get it wrong… When he first introduced me to the plan to fake his death and I told him it was a bad idea to keep _certain_ people out of the loop he said something like 'no one would really miss him'."

When John took breath to say something Mycroft raised his hand.

"Let me finish. I don't say this to disparage your grief or insult your feelings, and neither did he. I believe he was sure no one would ever like him or really want to have him around… or as a friend. He never had friends before and being rejected had been his normal social state of being for almost his entire life. Well, at least outside of his family… I think he didn't _dare_ to believe that anyone really wanted to have him around. It's not hard to guess that

when he saw the footage he finally understood the true depth of your friendship and it… shocked him."

John once more swallowed the rising emotions when he understood something else.

The violin had witnessed his desperation and the almost-loss, it was kind of Sherlock's emotional voice, was it - no _, she - now_ muted because of that?

It was a bit diffuse, but John started to guess this might be the connection to the present issues.

"I also want to point out that he didn't watch the videos with my approval," Mycroft switched back to the original topic. "I thought he was resting, but he sneaked into my office. Although I had prohibited it specifically and locked it well… and the recordings were in the safe! I tried to prevent him watching it because I anticipated it would do him no good. God knows how he even knew they were there…"

"Go on," John said when Mycroft stopped.

"He missed turning off the alarm and I was notified that someone was in my office. I surprised him. He was angry at _me_ , he yelled at me and a few seconds later he was a bit out of it."

"And then?"

"I tried to help but he yelled some more and I yelled back and he collapsed."

"Collapsed?"

"Regrettably, he blacked out in front of me."

"What did you do?"

"Checked his vitals, made sure he wouldn't choke. Anthea and I tried to get him into the recovery position, but he regained his senses fast and fought us, barely conscious. My PA called my physician, he arrived a few minutes later. He had to sedate my brother because we could not calm him down. He was not listing to me and we were afraid he'd hurt himself."

"Jesus, I need to know exactly what happened to him… he's quite bad at the moment and he needs… help… and I need to know what happened in order to help him."

"So why don't you ask him what happened?"

"You know your brother… Of course I bloody asked him. I think his answer is quite obvious, you of all people should know."

"I know, and I agree with you, really, I do. He needs help. I can provide a good therapist, but you know chances are high he wouldn't see her."

"No he won't. That's not what I meant though."

Mycroft ignored John's remark, "Even if we managed to drag him there for an appointment it will not help him because… Well, you know my brother."

"My point… because simply pouring out his woes to somebody won't help. He doesn't need a therapy where somebody _just listens_. And even if he decides to talk, a normal therapist won't understand a single thing he says and then tries to help him doing things _he_ does not understand, or if he does, doesn't accept, or is too stubborn to use… Or, probably the most important reason: things that work with the rest of mankind just don't work with him and he knows that, and he won't let someone experiment on him for months until they finally come to the same conclusion he had known from the start, and _that_ I can understand perfectly. It would be hell for him and the therapist and he'd be only more frustrated in the end. Not an option."

"I see we agree on the problem… at least at the moment. Hm… I have an important meeting in twenty minutes, I'll send you all the information I have. I don't need to say it's top secret, don't leave it lying around… besides, he won't like it."

"Well it is a breach of… something. But he won't like me probing even less and in the past he was okay with me knowing… stuff. I'll tell him that I have it… Hang on. So what do we do now?"

"We wait. Sounds like the only option right now."

"What for? Until he decides to _self-medicate_?"

"I don't know, John… I honestly don't know. Keeping him busy usually helps, let's hope it will this time, too."

"Yeah. Right."

"Good evening, John… I'm quite grateful for the fact that you try to help him, and that you decided to forgive him, he's much better… _with_ you. Well, I have to hurry, we'll discuss this further at an other time. I'll send Anthea."

"Oh," Was all John could manage after that utterance of approval. After their last confrontation he had feared the 'British Government' might hold grudges. But this was quite the opposite.

"Good evening," And Mycroft was out of the door.

 

Anthea arrived at the flat an hour later, softly calling his name from the living room.

She smiled at him; she had not only a phone in her hand but also a large envelope… and a set of keys that were labelled 221b.

"Were you there, when they were in Serbia?" John asked her, although she was typing on her phone again.

"I was there when they arrived in Bari, before that, no."

"What happened before?"

"They were secretly flown out of Serbia, with a small private plane."

"What happened in Bari?"

"We loaded them into the jet and left."

" _Loaded_ … How was Sherlock then?"

"Unconscious. I didn't recognise him right away."

John frowned, "What happened to him?"

"You better look into the files for details."

"Was Mycroft also hurt?" John asked when he remembered the older Holmes movements were a bit stiff and the hiss of pain when he had stood up earlier.

Anthea didn't answer and was already heading towards the stairs.

"This is for your and Sherlock's eyes only, don't show it to anybody else," she said without looking back. This was one of the most detailed and longest conversations John had ever had with that woman.

"Thank you," He said after her.

She briefly turned around to answer with one of her professional smiles and then hurried down the stairs.

John went back to Sherlock's room and sat down on the floor, leaning his back against the bed, in this position he could see Sherlock's face and was next to the sleeping detective.

He opened the file. The first thing he saw was a picture of a wild haired person's face who looked a bit surprised and a bit out of it, the picture was clearly taken without the person knowing it.

John needed almost ten seconds to realise it was Sherlock.

Chin long unkempt brown locks and a beard that was at least two weeks old partially hid his face.

John raised his eyebrows. He wouldn't have recognised him on the street, at least not immediately and not from his face. Now that he looked closer, it was clearly Sherlock, but it looked… somehow horrible and also a bit funny, but only because the contrast to his normally so accurate and genteel appearance was so enormous.

The doctor could clearly see pain in Sherlock's eyes.

John continued to go through the file while Sherlock slept next to him.

The things he learned were intense, and he paused several times, to bite his lips or lean his head back against the mattress and close his eyes for a few moments to get his reactions, to what he had read, under control.

There had been several close calls and several injuries in the past two years and John felt the more lucky that he had the man back, maybe a bit worse for wear but back and alive.

Sherlock slept and John just appreciated his presence, they'd manage everything else over time.

**Saturday Afternoon, Sherlock's Room**

 

Head hurts, no, everything hurt.

He felt air going in and that hurt, too, and when he breathed out it produced a moan. The ground was hard.

Where was he?

He blinked.

Hilarious, eyes hurting, too.

The surroundings were hidden in semi-dark.

Lying on his side, blurry mass of short dark blonde hair in direct line of sight.

John?… who was lying on the ground with him.

He tried to focus.

…. in his bedroom?

Sherlock frowned and even that hurt.

How did they both end up here? Had there been an attack?

Adrenaline started to rush through his system.

"John?" He whispered, his hands carefully moving around.

John lay on some blankets, as did he.

Pillows were spread around them.

The top of John's head towards him, the doctor's feet almost under Sherlock's bed.

His own back was facing towards the window.

What had happened?

His mind was unusually bleak… wiped clean…. He felt drowsy, heavy and... medicated?…. Concentrate!

Then the memory hit him…. he had slid down that wall…. He had panicked… passed out.

Embarrassing.

John seemed to have stayed with him… if the pillows were any indication the doctor had tried to make them comfortable and provided company.

Sherlock lifted his head. Sharp pain spiked through his neck.

John jerked upwards, alarmed.

"Sherlock?"

He must have made some noises then.

John turned towards him and looked right into his eyes.

"Hey," John lifted himself onto his elbows.

Sherlock tried to do the same but something was off.

"Shhh… Easy… stay put." John soothed. "You passed out and after you briefly returned to consciousness you slept for about four hours. This level of exhaustion might make you dizzy and maybe clumsy. How do you feel?"

"…." Sherlock tried to say something but his throat was not agreeing with him, he sucked in air in annoyance.

"John…" Sherlock managed to whisper finally.

"I'm here, Sherlock… How do you feel?" John did something next to him.

Rise of pressure on his arm… John was pumping air into a the cuff on his arm, to take his BP.

"Embarrassed," even his dumb eyes felt sluggish.

"No need… And besides I thought we were beyond that. You'll be okay in a few hours… At least if you start eating and continue to take the antibiotics regularly… You want to try to sit up?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded and very slowly sat up with John's help.

John assisted, but as soon as Sherlock was in a half sitting position the pressure on his head rose and his vision was disturbed by huge amounts of black areas.

Stay conscious!

"Okay, lie back down," John suggested before Sherlock remembered that possibility might existed.

"No…"

Nausea rose.

He let himself sink back down again. John had put a large pillow behind his back and he gratefully sank into it, came to rest with elevated shoulders and head this way. Less embarrassing than lying down while someone else was leaning over.

Why were his thoughts so one-dimensional?

It was disturbing.

"Rest some more before we try any exercise… Stay this way for a minute… Just catch your breath."

His breathing was indeed fast.

John vanished into the kitchen. It felt not good.

John was out of the room for what felt like an eternity and Sherlock felt his heartbeat so intense it was quite unpleasant. He concentrated to slow it down.

John returned with bottled sweet drinks and another round of painkillers.

"Could you… please…"

"Yes?"

He needed John to be safe… he needed him to be near to know that he was safe.

"I…"

And he wanted him around… he felt more safe when he was around… This was all quite embarrassing… he didn't dare to utter it.

"What's wrong?" John leaned over him, "Sherlock, tell me what's unsettling you!"

He wasn't unsettled!… Well, then he felt the trembling and the effort it took to get air and he frowned, it hurt.

"I really need to know you are okay and…"

John was so good to him, he didn't deserve to be burdened with Sherlock's problems.

"Don't… leave," he finally managed to get out. As soon as his lips had formed the word dark yellow-ochery shame rolled through his mind.

He had said it, it was a moment of severe weakness because he didn't know how to get through this night without getting insane, especially not alone.

John fetched another blanket from the bed and sat down next to him, his elbows resting on his raised knees, hands hanging lax between them.

Sherlock could not identify his expression, but the posture was a relaxed and waiting one, like sitting in the meadow, watching the wildlife.

They were kind of camping here, on the floor of Sherlock's room.

A memory of playing with Mycroft brushed through his mind, when they had built dens and booths in the living room. He had done that outside when on the run or nothing else was available. It was uncomfortable, little creatures crawling around everywhere.

The association to the memory made something dark green grow in his chest and it expanded slowly all over his body.

Better, this felt better than camping while he was on the hunt… Safer. John was a genius, building a nest to make him feel better.

"Relax, I won't go anywhere."

Sherlock tried to relax, he felt his whole body was aching with tension.

 

 


	26. Saturday early evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They visit the MindPalace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gattis or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

John saw Sherlock relax a bit, good.

He needed a relaxed atmosphere for what he planned to do next.

"I assume you're still exhausted and feel like shit… But…," he didn't really know how to start, this was harder than expected, "I need to explain… I know where you are Sherlock, I know how your world feels right now."

"Joohn,…" Sherlock sounded a bit alarmed and tensed up again.

"It is quite an empty place…"

"I do _not_ desire to talk about this."

"Shut up," John gently suggested, "You don't have to talk. I'll talk in fact. Don't speak, just listen."

The former soldier knew by doing this he risked to trigger himself… he knew he wasn't good talking about feelings… but this was the only way… and talking to Sherlock was on some levels more difficult than talking to anybody else… and in some other areas more easy than anybody else.

"Some time ago I was in a dark place. It was the worst state my mind had ever experienced. Before I had been there my soul had no clue such a horrible mindset even existed, and when I was there I realised how blind and lucky I had been not knowing anything like it existed before," John paused for a moment. He didn't dare to look at Sherlock, sure the detective would try to stop him as soon as he had his attention.

"I was maybe even… envying all those people who had their blessedly normal life and were so innocent, not even knowing such horrors exist. It is the kind of place that once one has been there it is impossible _unsee_ it, seeing it changed me," John admitted, taking a deep breath to collect himself a bit.

"I felt so very alone there that it made my whole existence hurt from loneliness and abandonment… Every single minute of my dreadful existence was agony. Not only that I felt left alone by people, but by anything nice or positive that existed in the world. I was no longer able to feel joy or enjoy anything I had loved to do before. Every hint of bliss and felicity had been wiped from the face of my world and I was sure that having felt it before was a naïve illusion. I didn't understand how other people walked the world and didn't understand the lie they were living. I felt like I was a dead man walking and when I went to sleep I hoped I would never wake up again."

"When was this, John?"

John cursed that Sherlock was even unable to shut up when he didn't want to talk. But Sherlock seemed to have switched into some other mode. His posture had changed from refusal to…?

He sounded alarmed. Or was it worry? John was heading somewhere different, had not intended that path of thoughts, not even considered that Sherlock might ask this.

"Doesn't matter," John unfolded his legs and stuffed some pillows into his back.

"It does for me," Sherlock's voice was slightly trembling again.

Damn it. Sherlock had seen him on the bed with the gun, did he think he was suicidal?

"Not recently. Don't go there… Calm down," John lay down on the cushion but eyed Sherlock's body carefully.

Then he continued, "You're not getting the point. The point is to ask yourself if you recognise my description of that place in your mind and if you have been there or if there's anything in your mind palace that might feel similar to what I just described."

"I doubt that this…"

"Shhh. I'm not finished. You need more date, and I need to get this out… So, please, just do me the favour and listen. I might feel better after having done this," John briefly touched Sherlock's hand in the semi-dark.

This was about encouraging Sherlock to open up by doing it himself.

They were an odd sight there, on the ground, surrounded by pillows and blankets and bottles of water and medical stuff.

"While my soul was surrounded by that dark, my body needed to go on with life. I felt separated… er, my mind felt separated from my body. All-day things constantly reminded me of the horrible things I had experienced. I wandered the world like in a dark bubble. Where ever I went, the reminders of the trauma seemed to follow me, sprang into my mind when I didn't want them. I couldn't get rid of them, I couldn't hide from them, my own mind harassed me. I couldn't outrun the constant nightmare my life had become. There was no safe place in my world any longer. More severe were things that were consciously or unconsciously associated with the memories of dark events themselves or the hours around it."

John took another deep breath, feeling how describing this made him feel cold and uneasy. Talking to his therapist had forced him to learn to speak about his feelings. He gave a sarcastic huff when he realised the feeling of shame about it had profoundly deadened during the past years of therapy. He could do this to help Sherlock.

"My brain constantly replayed all the shit in technicolour and slow motion, I was helplessly watching and unable to change anything… Reliving shock, panic and helplessness… and the pain of course, again. The aftermath of reliving the memories left me disoriented and shivering in new arisen terror."

John carefully observed Sherlock's reactions, who's eyes had closed. He seemed paler than half an hour ago.

He hesitated, should he go on with this? He almost felt cruel, but on the other hand he knew - no matter what - Sherlock would never ever go see a therapist. So the only option they had was to figure this out between the two of them.

The only chance to figure out what was happening was to do this was while Sherlock had his defences lowered enough to let John in.

Was this madness? Double madness? – No Mycroft was with him, triple then?

But Sherlock had to realise that he needed help and he had to understand he actually needed to entrust John with it, at least if he didn't want to entrust anybody else.

The doctor hated the idea that he might be the only straw that Sherlock might be willing to grasp, especially since he himself still felt like he needed help with this whole disaster himself and was not convinced he'd be qualified.

But due to his own experiences he might be the best choice from the few people Sherlock actually trusted. Well, maybe he could manage to drag Sherlock to his therapist later, though the consultant had always considered her incompetent.

"I… er, felt broken, ashamed, numb, in shock, and afraid that anyone in public might see my state of mind. I hurt… I hurt more than I had ever before in my life."

He stopped, needing a moment himself. He had closed his eyes and when he opened them he saw Sherlock's jaw was clenched and the man had tensed up and was breathing shallowly. Whatever Sherlock was seeing in himself from John's descriptions was surfacing.

If Sherlock was experiencing nothing of it he'd have pointed it out in an unnerved tone by now. The consultant _knew_ what he was talking about, at least partially.

The doctor continued to watch his reactions closely while he continued.

"Well, there was no sleep without nightmares, and in them I relived the events in a thousand different scenarios, sometimes by being a bystander with tied hands, helpless, not able to prevent the horrors from happening. When it was really bad I felt like on the edge of a breakdown. I had no control over the tears sometimes, they just came, it made me feel vulnerable and I started to hate myself for this weakness even more… was angry at myself for not being able to keep them at bay. As you know, I'm not usually the guy who sheds tears easily."

It was hard for John to keep his tone casual, especially while staring at a Sherlock, who seemed to come closer and closer to some kind of severe distress.

But it was no use, Sherlock needed to understand he needed help the way he learned all things: the hard way.

He needed a bit of a gentle kick in the pants to make him open his eyes on this.

John hated himself for being the one who had to execute the kick, but he knew he was the one and only person who was able to do it. If Sherlock would listen to anybody it was John, not Mycroft, not Lestrade, not Molly.

Him, only him.

Right now he swore about how hard it was. It was even kind of painful.

"I hurt… and sometimes the only thing in my mind was that I wanted the hurt to stop," John finished.

Oh god, it still hurts.

It made him close his eyes and wait for a moment to calm down.

Sherlock gulped, then turned onto his side and hid himself from John's view effectively.

Slowly, the former soldier went around him and found Sherlock was trembling again.

Shit. Here we go.

John took a deep breath, now or never.

He half sat, half lay down next to Sherlock on the other side. By then, the detective had curled up into a foetal position.

John slowly rested his hand on Sherlock's upper arm, who's breath haltered for a moment and so he decided to speak.

"You need help with this. You can't do this alone. Let me in… Let me help."

Sherlock gulped and drew another shallow breath.

"I know you hurt and I know the memories are tormenting you. If you don't get help this might become far worse or even develop into PTSD… And believe me, that will be so much worse, you don't want to go there."

Sherlock's jaw clenched even more.

"You don't need to do anything. You trust my medical skills and allowed me to stitch you up… This is not too different… Just let me in, just listen to me and go with me where I take you."

Sherlock remained still.

"Can you do that?"

The doctor knew that letting Sherlock think it over would only result in retreat, he needed to take him by the mind's hand as long as Sherlock was in this fragile and vulnerable mindset, the only situation he'd be able to accept it, which was right now.

"Sherlock, I want to help… I _need_ to help. I know where you are, I know you feel no hope and I know you feel lost, but all you have to do is allow me in. Let me take care of things for a moment. I've been there, I maybe have a compass. Can you do that?"

John's hand was still resting on Sherlock's arm and in the semi dark John saw something that he interpreted as a tiny nod… Even if it wasn't, he'd continue.

He needed a few seconds to collect his thoughts. Sherlock seemed not to dare to move the tiniest bit after right now, extremely tensed up.

"Hey, you need to relax a bit, here," John started to move his thumb across the shoulder joint, where it happened to be. The detective took a few deeper breaths.

The fact that Sherlock didn't shove him away and the fact that he had agreed to let the doctor in where large steps… and showed a lot of trust.

"You told me the Mindpalace was damaged somehow," John started in a soothing voice. "I want you to take me there."

John waited.

After about two minutes he wondered if Sherlock was able to hear him or if his distress was causing more trouble than the doctor had thought.

It took another two minutes until he heard an answer.

"How?" Sherlock sounded terrible, exhausted and hoarse.

"By just describing me what everything looks like… how the palace feels to your senses… Just describe what you see. Take me there and tell me what you see for the beginning."

John more felt than saw another nod. He tried to relax, get into a more comfortable position, this might take a while.

"Okay. I want you to go to the mind palace, but simultaneously keep your ears with me, can you do that?"

"'course."

"Really? You usually kind of ignore me when you go there."

"'t's new," Sherlock whispered.

"Since when?" John tried to ease the situation a bit doing by some random talk.

"J'st happened… don't know… since Baskerville… or since the return?"

Sherlock sounded as if he really needed to sleep, it was a lot of work for him to even talk. But John needed to built the small entrance he had been granted into a solid door before Sherlock had the chance to close it again because of shame and stoic embarrassment.

"Like a speaker… system."

John raised his eyebrows.

Really? This was… something important, wasn't it? Huge change or something, his own speaker system.

"Go on, try to relax a bit, breathe deeper… Good. Let's go, figure out the problem, can you do that?"

"There's damage…"

"You're already there?"

This was fast.

"No, I know. Need a minute," Sherlock's voice trailed off at the last words; his breathing deepened.

"Sure, take your time… Can you go to where the damage is and describe what it looks like?… no wait, I need a rough plan of the surroundings… How many stories are there?"

"A lot."

"More than twenty?"

"Yes."

"How many rooms are there on one level?"

"D'pends."

"On average?"

"Between thirty and seventy."

"Blimey. Does it actually look like a real building?"

"Some areas do," Sherlock's speech was gaining confidence.

"Was the memory palace always there or did you built it in your youth?"

"It was always there and had different areas… but it hadn't a visual appearance when… when I was a child, it had not the shape of the insides of a building or of rooms. It was just areas in space. I built the memory technique inside the phenomenon and they… kind of… merged." Sherlock explained.

In the beginning John had thought the Mindpalace was just a memory technique, but right now he understood it was also a visualisation of Sherlock's mind.

"So, the parts you built latest have the clearest visualization?"

"All parts I built past the age of fifteen years have very clear visible structures."

"And the parts you built in your youth?"

"They are more _abstract_ … Some information there kind of hover in endless space."

John paused a moment, trying to imagine what Sherlock described.

"Are you in there, yet?"

"Can't concentrate, you talk too much."

John giggled, "So concentrate."

He waited and could almost feel the change in Sherlock's demeanour when he managed to enter his mind's realm.

His body relaxed and his breathing deepened.

Would this be good if he was panicking again? Take him to the Palace?

"Hmmm," Sherlock made a minute later.

"Is this a way of telling me you're in the lobby?" John had lowered his voice and spoke slowly.

"Hmm," Sherlock agreed, it sounded dreamy.

"Go to the damaged areas, describe the surroundings and your paths."

"Grande double staircase… Corridors… Current level is like an old school building. Many doors. No damage here," Sherlock sounded faraway, his eyes were closed.

"Okay, what is the light like?"

"It's illuminated perfectly… though kind of bright."

"So where are you headed now?"

"Walking up the stairs to the seventh level."

"What do they look like?"

"This segment of the stairway is fancy… space age…"

John chuckled, this was actually getting a more interesting touch than a horrible one.

"Can you remember when you built that particular one?" John asked just because he was curious.

"Er… yes," Sherlock muttered, sounding a bit bemused, too.

"You like that one…"

The doctor felt Sherlock relax more under his hand, he had carefully maintained the touch.

"Yep," Sherlock exhaled.

"Is there a level in similar design?"

"Obviously… But there's no damage… I'm climbing another flight of stairs."

"Yes, alright," John was actually kind of amazed to take this virtual journey inside of Sherlock's mind.

"How do you know from the stairs there is no damage?"

"Feels like it."

Now, that was kind of puzzling.

Sherlock sucked in air through his teeth and the doctor could feel him tense up.

"What is it?" John carefully asked

"There… some areas are burned down or something… I can't really know because I can't see, there is… are visual disturbances… Smoke maybe?"

"How were they damaged? From the bonfire?"

"No… from… bombardment… or something."

"With what was it bombarded? Bombs?"

"The bonfire,…"

John frowned.

"… Serbia… the Fall," Sherlock continued the list.

John could feel the distress rise in the room.

"So, it was bombarded… Er, your soul was attacked by several events that shook you, made you… hurt you, in a non-physical way?" John tried to translate.

"Mmaybe," Sherlock admitted, sounding ashamed.

"Did you try to extinguish the problems?"

"I… It took some time to realise they were even there, then I tried, but I was busy with Moriarty's net and… I… underestimated it, and… it's still smoldering."

"Did you try to get a hand on that?"

"Repeatedly."

"Why isn't it working?"

"The water… vaporises and the… mist makes seeing the seat of fire difficult… there's too much rubble to get through."

"Is the mist and the rubble a visualization of emotions or sensations?"

"I don't know. Sounds ridiculous."

"Maybe of anxiety to face it…" John mused.

"No, I'm not afraid of facing things."

" _Do_ you know what you are afraid of?" John probed further.

"No… Yes."

John waited but finally understood that Sherlock was not planning to explain.

This was actually further than John had hoped to go and he decided to leave it here.

"Right, okay, I want you to you 'bookmark' this area somehow and mark it - so you don't stumble into it accidentally - so we can find it again if we decide to. And then… can you slowly come back to reality?… Or is there something you want to show me?"

"Mind Palace _is_ reality," Sherlock mumbled.

"I know, but I don't know how else to put it into words to get out of there. Can you bookmark it?"

"Hmm."

"Don't go there alone… and remember where it is."

"Yes."

John removed his hand from Sherlock's arm and waited. It took almost two minutes before Sherlock slowly blinked.

"You're tired."

Sherlock nodded.

"You want something to help you sleep?"

A headshake.

"Okay, can you manage to roll onto your back for a moment?"

A nod. Sherlock managed to shift into the prone position.

"You need anything?"

"No… Cold," Sherlock protested when John dragged back the blanket and took his BP once more.

"You need some sugar."

John fetched the meds and some soft drink from the floor. He helped Sherlock take the assortment of colourful pills, who excepted his stabilizing hand on his back; he even drank half of the small bottle of sweetened beverage before he lay down again.

When John made their temporary camping site more cosy Sherlock rolled back into the foetal position.

The doctor offered him the edge of another blanket he had shoved away earlier. Sherlock took it and dragged the blanket over his legs.

"Sleep. I won't leave."

It took almost half an hour until the detective's breathing finally evened out.

Sherlock's sleep was fitful and John spend the rest of the night trying to figure out how to make this work, thinking about what do to next. He was not a therapist and the weight of the responsibility he had just started to shoulder made him a bit uneasy. But repairing the palace and sort out some of the negative responses seemed necessary.

 

 


	27. Sunday morning - A new victim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new crime scene and a new victim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

John woke up in the early hours of the morning and to his surprise Sherlock was still sound asleep.

What woke him?

He looked at Sherlock's bedside alarmclock.

Well, he had slept almost eight hours, was probably just finished sleeping after this time.

But he still felt tired and a bit stiff. He hadn't slept on the ground voluntarily in ages, so he was no longer used to it, though in the army and emergency attendance he had learned to sleep anywhere and in almost every position.

He watched Sherlock sleep for a few moments.

The other man looked more relaxed than in the past days. The doctor watched him breathe and his pulse moving at his neck.

His personal miracle, Sherlock was alive and in front of him instead of rotting in a grave. As slowly and quietly as possible he peeled off the blankets and stood up, when Sherlock didn't react, he went into the kitchen, leaving the door ajar.

The Laptop booted while he made coffee.

While sipping the hot liquid he read the newest comments on his block. He had added the last post - about Sherlock being back - on the 7th. But he hadn't felt ready to write something more than that yet. When he had done the last post, he had been still stunned and really angry, had not really known what to say back then. When he had re-read the entry a few days later he felt it was kind of 'off' but hadn't had the nerves to go over it again just yet.

The response to the consultant detective's return was an overwhelming flood of comments and emails. After the fall John had read the sympathy mails, it was hard but all the people who told him that they still believed in Sherlock were good for him, especially in the moments where he himself struggled to believe in him.

Most of the comeback-mails he had read until now were positive, but he had barely managed to read an eighth. There were a few ones that were not positive, but their percentage was smaller than he had expected and there was nothing really venomous in them.

He approved a few comments on the blog and answered a short mail from Harry.

During the early evening Mary had texted him twice and he had answered that he was too tired to talk and that Sherlock was in need of medical attention. He promised her to call back later. She had expressed that it was fine and if he had the chance he should sleep, too.

Now, he found an email from her, she wanted to know what happened and told him if he was too busy she'd call Sunday night.

He loved her for these small things. She was so patient with all this.

He took his time answering and explaining what had happened, not sure what the coming day would bring that might keep him from calling her. Inwardly he found he was hoping the criminal elements were taking a day off, on second thoughts… something nice and small that wouldn't be too difficult and violent and that would keep Sherlock busy and not-bored would be beneficial.

Sherlock wouldn't take it well to do nothing for a whole day in his current state.

John made sure to write some nice things about the past days because their calls had contained so much of the difficult stuff and he felt he needed to add a counterpart.

Mary seemed to enjoy her lessons, apparently they weren't as boring as she had initially feared. She liked the different routine and the accommodations seemed to be more than comfortable. She sounded fine and enthusiastic, he wouldn't disturb this more than absolutely necessary with his BS.

Mary had offered to come home but he was glad he had refused while reading how much she enjoyed the training. Besides, she had saved up for quite some time to do this additional education.

He went for a second cup after sending his answer.

When he added milk to his tea he heard movement in Sherlock's room but he decided to wait for him to come out. No need to heighten Sherlock's embarrassment. But he would go after him if the other man would hide in there until noon.

The idea proved to be irrelevant a few seconds later when Sherlock's door opened and a dishevelled looking consulting detective stepped into the kitchen.

"Oh, hi," John greeted.

"Mornin'," Sherlock answered politely, "Coffee!"

It was an utterance of delight about the presence of the beverage.

John fetched another cup and started to filled it, simultaneously Sherlock started adding sugar to the same cup. He worked around John, though he was still clumsy he managed it without spilling a single grain or getting in John's way. The gesture was so much Sherlock and showed so much trust and familiarity it made John smile.

"You missed coffee."

Sherlock stirred to dissolve the sugar.

"No… Yess… sometimes… Coffee in Naples was nice but you need to order double because otherwise it's just a tablespoon full… Tea was bad though… Overall the absence of good tea was much more burdensome," Sherlock elaborated absentmindedly while inhaling the scent thoroughly before tasting it for the first time.

John had feared it would be a difficult morning but up to now it was starting in a relaxed way.

"Breakfast?"

"Nope."

"There are some nice new comments on the blog about your return," John tried to keep the conversation light and easy.

"You are trying to encourage me to comment on the comments?"

"Maybe, depends… if you try to be nice."

"You want to nice-check before publishing?" Sherlock answered with an expression of exaggerated false sarcasm, rolling his eyes upwards to underline it.

When he sat down on the couch a few moments later he remained silent, his expression had changed to _deep in thoughts_ or _distant_ , John wasn't sure.

An hour later Sherlock hadn't said another word and John didn't try to make him talk. But the doctor wondered if Sherlock's mind was with the case or with the events of the past night.

John tried to clean up the kitchen and the living room, half expecting Sherlock to throw a fit but he didn't react at all. The consultant kept his eyes closed for long periods, his hands flat against each other under his chin, they never lost tension.

John made tea twice and placed it on the table, but it remained untouched.

Was Sherlock angry about himself for not having continued the surveillance last night due to his collapse? Was he sulking about failing to protect the victim? About being inept because of that? Or was he angry at John for his course of action or for him having seen him this vulnerable and weak?

.

In the late afternoon, when John started to wonder how and when Sherlock planned to continue the surveillance of the potential victims flat, Sherlock's phone chirped.

The tall man jumped up as if bitten and John almost dropped the mug of cold tea he had just removed from the sofa table. It took Sherlock less than ten seconds to open and read the message, then he stared down at his phone for over a minute, totally unmoving, until John took the phone from his hands to read it himself.

_'Veterinary student found, dead for at least 14 hrs, wanna come? Lestrade'_

"Are we gonna go?" John asked while he inwardly cursed.

She had died! They hadn't observed her flat. This was bad, really, really bad!

"Of course!" Sherlock seemed almost offended about the idea of not going. He returned to full-action mode suddenly and hasted into his room to change.

"Okay. Will be ready in a minute," John told the empty room and exhaled, then headed for his bedroom to change, too.

He was just back downstairs when Sherlock brushed past him, he was still in the procedure to get into his coat when he hurried down the stairs. John tied his shoelace and grab his jacket.

Sherlock already stood on the sidewalk, hand raised into the air, when John reached him.

A passing taxi ignored him.

The look on Sherlock's face was almost comical and John had to look down to keep himself from giggling. When he looked up again Sherlock was clearly disgusted that no taxi was available within thirty seconds. One thing he obviously hadn't learned during his hiatus was patience with certain things, though John was sure he himself was handled extra-patient these days.

"Smells like snow," Sherlock stated, his eyes distant as if he was watching something no one else could see. John looked up into the dark sky, the clouds were heavy, but there were some tiny patches of dim moonlight in the distance.

When he returned his gaze to the tall figure next to him a taxi had stopped.

They climbed in and some time later arrived at the scene. John had wondered the whole ride how this could happen.

Why the hell had she been killed the night they haven't been on stakeout? Was it their fault?

The scene looked like a normal crime scene: yellow and black tape, police cars, police lights, policemen, and busy running around all over the place.

Sherlock silently passed the tape, totally ignoring everybody who politely asked him what he wanted or who he was.

John followed and wondered if there were really people at Scotland Yard who didn't know who he was these days.

Well, it was dark and Sherlock looked like death warmed over.

When John finally looked around he blinked with surprise. He hadn't asked for details and had somehow expected to be at the house where the student lived but they were far away in a totally different part of town.

Sherlock entered a warehouse, went straight up to the fist level and passed the door, John on his heels.

Lestrade was barking orders through a large room that looked like bureaus or administrative rooms.

"How do you know where to go?"

"You are teasing me with extra dumb questions, aren't you? Or haven't I filled the necessary count of words to be polite for one day?"

Now John was the one rolling his eyes, Sherlock's mood was not getting better with the new facts.

Lestrade was still ordering people around in an unnerved tone when they stepped closer.

"Where?" Sherlock asked.

The DI pointed to the back of the room where another door was located and Sherlock headed straight towards it.

The consulting detective did only two steps into the small room before he stopped and John stepped to his side to see what he was staring at.

A young woman was sitting on the floor, leaned against the wall and a shelf with her back. Her hands and ankles were bound and she was gagged. She was pale but couldn't be dead for long.

Sherlock put on gloves and knelt down, he then inspected her hairline, then the insides of her sweatshirt sleeves.

A moment later he lifted the jumper at her side and felt a crease of the wide undershirt. Next he dragged the waistband a few centimetres down and looked at the fabric of her knickers.

Overall it didn't even take five minutes, until he stood up and turned away. Lestrade blocked the door of the small room and didn't step aside. Sherlock almost bumped into him, totally expecting Greg would dodge.

"Tell me."

"Not our perpetrator."

"Hell, Sherlock explain, please."

Sherlock sighed, "I need more data. Seventeen theories so far. No need to waste time explaining them all. John, check the bruises next to her hairline and her jaw. Any ideas?"

"Sherlock!" Lestrade's mood was obviously not the best one, too.

"Quite interesting findings, but not our serial killer. I'll inspect the lower level and the other room."

Greg stepped away and the consulting detective headed down the stairs, not waiting for a reaction.

John knelt down while fitting gloves over his fingers. He took his time, closely inspected the odd marks parallel to the hairline, at the jaw and cheeks.

"Can you send me the pictures of the bruises?" the doctor asked Lestrade.

"Sure. Hunnigs, get downstairs and look for the bloody photographer," Lestrade send away the only other person currently in the room with them.

"He's worse," it was a statement, not a question, "You look like hell, John."

"Yeah. And there might be a few things you should know. He has… 'attacks' you should be aware of, just in case they happen when I'm not there. Some day in the future I'll have to go back to work and I won't be there, and I need to know you're prepared. Because _he_ won't be."

"Gosh, honestly? The medical kind or…"

John just stared at Greg, not sure how to answer this.

He didn't want to betray Sherlock's trust but when there was a person who needed to be made privy to the issues it was the DI... well, and MrsHudson.

Originally, John had planned to talk about this necessity with Sherlock before talking to them both, but...

"If I see an opportunity to talk, I'll text, I want to talk to Sherlock about telling you first. He won't like it. He bought beer for us so we could have a pint at the flat, maybe we should do that."

"He did? You're kidding, right?"

But the answer was written so clearly on John's face that he nodded his understanding.

"I think he doesn't want to be alone, though he'd never admit it. Hunting Moriarty's people down has been a lot more traumatising than I thought in the beginning. It's hard work to get anything out of him, but that's nothing new."

Lestrade sighed.

"How about I come around tomorrow to discuss the case with him in detail so you can get some sleep, mate?"

"I…."

"I want to help, don't hesitate."

"Okay, I'll call."

"Have you ever seen marks like this?" Lestrade changed topics.

"Hm, maybe. My fist thought was she was wearing some kind of a mask."

"Me too. Something medical?"

"No, but… wait," John turned her head gently and searched for more marks on her skull. "Nothing medical, but my first thought was that she wore a gasmask, but the marks are different to those I know. Those should be located more to the left and this," he pointed to one of the darker areas "…shouldn't be there at all… Maybe an foreign product?"

"Or one non-military?... or a new brand for special purposes?" Lestrade wondered aloud. "Someone needs to find out what was produced here and if there is an area where one needs to wear a mask."

"Nothing was produced here that needed masks," Sherlock came back into the room.

"How do you know?"

"Chemist, remember?"

"What has the one to do with the other?"

"Think for a change, Detective Inspector, would you?!… It was not a new mask, it was an _old_ one, maybe more of a collectible than an object fit for use."

"What?"

"What else did you find?" John asked.

"Oh, right," Sherlock held out his fist and dramatically opened his hand, which contained a red cross pin, neatly packed in a small evidence back.

"Worth about 50 pounds according to a collector's internet site. It's from WW2."

"What has that to do with the mask?"

"Look at her underwear."

"Oh, please," Lestrade was indeed not in his most patient mood today.

"Obviously she is not wearing her own clothes, a girl styled like this does not wear a jumper two sizes too big in combination with hairspray and makeup. Her underwear looks as if they belong to Mrs Hudson's mother, as does her hairdo."

John lifted the jumper at her side and nodded.

"This is like a cotton sheet, not fine rib or synthetics… neither are the knickers."

"Time travel, then?" Lestrade joked.

"In a way it was… Apparently she was into WW2 stuff. This place was used for role-play sessions, re-enacting scenes from the second world war. Regularly. Up to thirty different people spending their free time here… But there was an incident and she died, probably because the old gas mask had a malfunction and no one noticed until it was too late, maybe because she was supposed to act injured as a part of the act. The others fled after cleaning up, leaving her behind, in fear of being accused of negligence or murder."

"I'm sure we'll find her uniform somewhere in the building."

"Uniform?"

"Yes, she played an air raid warden."

"How can you possibly know that?"

"Look, there is a whistle," he pointed at the tiny object, half hidden under her calf, "…and a gas rattle," he pointed at a wooden object that was lying close to her right hand, "…typical equipment for this kind of work… as would be a gas mask…"

"You mean this stuff is actually _old_?" John wanted to know.

"Partially, yes. The question is: if this group or these people had actually the money to buy this kind of militaria or reproductions, why were they using this building unauthorised?"

"How do you know they were?" Lestrade asked.

"They wouldn't have left her if they had permission, because then the one who gave permission would know who used it."

"Maybe they did it to add kind of an secretive atmosphere," John suggested.

"Or they were doing something else that was forbidden… like smoking weed, at least the smell is still lingering," Sherlock explained, then his face lit up.

"Oh!… I need another minute."

"It's not like we're hustling you. Take your time," Lestrade yelled after the consultant who was already running down the stairs again. He threw a questioning look at John and when he nodded they both followed him.

Forensics met them halfway and Lestrade directed them to the body.

They met again downstairs where Sherlock was kneeling besides a dustbin that contained waste which seemed at least fifteen years old, considering the faded juice tetra pak and cake-wrappings John remembered from his time as a medical student.

"Those are from… too old."

"There could be waste from two decades in there."

"Yes, but I was looking for… this!"

Sherlock held up something like an stripe ripped of a bedsheet, it was dirty with something that looked like blood.

John took it and inspected it closely.

"Standard issue cotton bandages from the first half of the century. The blood was in contact with oxygen for… maybe 20 hours, according to the colour."

"We need to check the body for wounds… but first…" Sherlock wandered around the place, his gaze darting through the large hall and searching every corner, pillar, dust pile and old machinery left behind. John and Lestrade followed him.

After a few minutes the consulting detective stepped closer to one of the metal pillars and knelt down beside it. The lower part was sprinkled with tiny red dots, obviously blood.

"Somebody hurt himself on this… or was thrown against it… John, search for an old or used first aid kit, it's items or bags at all."

Lestrade yelled through the large hall to his men to search for that kind of stuff, too.

"Oi…" John exclaimed a moment later from a corner of the large room so Lestrade and Sherlock joined him. He had picked something up from the ground.

"What's that? A lipstick?" Lestrade wanted to know.

"No," John carefully twisted the top of the cylindrical device and it came of, "It's an gun oiler made of brass, royal artillery version."

"Reproduction or original?" Sherlock asked.

"Can't say, I'm not into that history stuff. I only know because my great uncle had one of those, carried it around for decades after the war."

"So these are all evidence this is a WW2 freaks' playground," Lestrade summarized.

"So accident or murder?"

"Need to see the body up close. Text me when it is available and Molly is on duty… No, forget it, I'll ask her myself, thank you. She was reported missing by her parents, right?" Sherlock switched topics within seconds.

"Yes," Lestrade confirmed.

"I don't wonder she didn't told them where she went, but I wonder why she was reported missing this early. Why didn't she tell her parents she was with a friend? I assume they played here since Friday. Why was she reported missing so early and where is her mobile? Find out. Tell me if there are new facts."

Sherlock turned around and headed for the door.

Halfway he turned around and added "I assume the surveillance of the bank clerk's flat brought nothing new or you would have called. Text me if there is another missing person reported, if there is, John and I will take over the surveillance if your men are still not available."

John and Lestrade stood were left.

The doctor sighed.

"I need to fetch him before he leaves without me. He hasn't spoken ten sentences all day, this was good for him, though sad for her."

"Okay. Good luck. Thank you two for coming."

"Thank you for calling, he'd have vandalised the flat without a little riddle today… You saved the day."

John followed Sherlock out of the door.

 


	28. Sunday night - The violin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.
> 
> -
> 
> I want to add the following about the WW2 topic: I am German and since I was a child I was interested in the history of WW2. I think I watched almost every WW2 documentary BBC and The History Channel ever made. I also saw several really interesting ones about London during the war and the homefront effort. Since I was in my early teens I visited memorials and museums whenever I got the chance, and two concentration camps, it's heavy stuff.
> 
> Re-enacting WW2 sounds strange to me. I know people in other countries do it, and for me it's quite okay that they celebrate or re-live getting rid of a tyrant.  
> I know the accessories can be bought abroad but it's really strange for me to see there is actually third reich uniforms and patches for sale on internet pages, because in Germany you'd get in trouble with the law for wearing or showing a swastika.  
> Loads of people do re-enactment/role-play here as a hobby, too, but it's about more mystical stuff or things that were way longer in the past.

 

They arrived at the flat past midnight. Sherlock had not spoken during the ride and when he went to his room to change into more comfortable clothes John decided to be insolent and just follow him. He really needed to take a look at Sherlock's back.

The detective undressed as if John wasn't there, with his back to him, until he started to unbutton his shirt.

"What do you want?" his tone was not exactly friendly.

"See the stitches."

Sherlock continued until he was only in his boxers and socks, then put on his pyjama pants. As soon as he had them on he stood rooted to the spot, unmoving.

John wasn't getting it.

"What are you waiting for?" Sherlock finally asked.

"Oh, I… Can we sit in the kitchen?"

"No."

The nest of blankets was still on the ground, Sherlock had not moved any of it.

"I want us to sit or you lying down."

Sherlock reached for the t-shirt he often wore under his dressing gown, clutched it to his chest and moved over to the pile of blankets. John's medical bag was still there, too.

To John's surprise Sherlock shoved the blankets a bit this way and then that way and finally he lay down on top of them.

John raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

He checked if the bag contained everything he'd need and then started peeling the large plasters from Sherlock's back. He had last seen the wounds Friday morning, before they went to Scotland Yard.

The other man's back had improved a lot. The infection was almost gone and most of the stitches had healed nicely. John decided he'd remove them in two days.

He once more applied ointment on the still red areas of Sherlock's back and then redressed the sites.

"Okay. Looks a lot better."

Sherlock stayed silent and when the doctor patted his shoulder as a sign that he was finished he sat up and pulled the inside out shirt over his head.

Making some tea would probably be a good idea, so John went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Five minutes later he returned with a steaming mug and the detective's meds.

Sherlock had put on a sweatshirt, it looked odd, since the man never wore this kind of clothing.

"You are cold?"

The question was ignored, probably because it was stupid.

Sherlock was in a supine position now, pillows piled up so that his torso was elevated, his hands were in his typical thinking position though his posture was a bit off.

John held the cup against the back of Sherlock's right hand and the other man automatically took it.

"Here," John held out the meds.

Sherlock looked unnerved but took them with some water from a bottle that had been still lying on the ground next to the blankets, then returned to holding the warm cup in his hands.

John assumed the other man was extremely frustrated with the case and with his own problems.

Sherlock's eyes were now closed and John wondered if that meant he was dismissed.

The doctor carefully tucked at the dressing gown's sleeve before talking.

"It was not your fault she is dead… Even if we had observed her flat we wouldn't have prevented her death. She was not home for days. Do not tor…" he stopped himself before saying 'torture yourself' and hastily continued, "… put that weight on your shoulders. There was nothing you could have done."

Sherlock didn't react but John knew he had heard him because he had slightly stiffened when John had started to speak.

It was totally useless to tell Sherlock he should get some rest or eat or whatever sane people would do, so he didn't.

"Good night," John stood up and went out of the room, taking his bag with him. Sherlock's mood was far too dark to leave the stuff in there.

 

For a change Sherlock was glad John left him alone. The difference from _no-John-present_ to _John present 24/7_ was quite intense.

He wanted him around in general, but right now he felt like he needed some quiet and _no one-present_.

Cold…

Today had totally messed up the fine sorted out image he had about the case. Every fact had been tossed around and it was back-to-square-one in a way.

How had he missed it? What had been so wrong in his deductions?

The only good thing was that she obviously had not been murdered by _their_ killer. The thought that she might have been killed because he had had a nervous breakdown and therefore not continued the surveillance had driven him mad, at least before he had learned the facts.

His body had reacted to that, his stomach had felt as if he drank several litres of ice cold water.

Not good.

His transport was really getting on his nerves these days.

It felt heavy and the stitches itched.

Lying on his back put pressure on them and turned the itching into pain.

That was good. Felt better…

Physical pain was _so_ much easier to handle than mental distress.

Where was the flaw in his theories?

What had made him so sure she'd be the next victim?

Think!

It was all to slow!

His mind was slow, police was slow, even his transport was slow. It was disgusting. He needed to think clearly!

Where was he…?

Yes, flaw… His flaws… The flat, it was the outer circumstances of her living environment that had made him make the final decision to observe _her_ building.

He hoped the Yarders were surveiling the other woman right now. The thought that they might have been right to observe _her_ flat was a bit unsettling.

Had he lost his ability to think properly in the past two years?

He indeed knew he was slower than before, if he was honest with himself.

The time away had left him with deep exhaustion and in a constant dark mood… He had thought one of the reasons was… because… the information was trying to hide from his sight, he went after it.

Oh, John's absence had slowed him down, he needed that conductor.

He had known that before, but had tried to deny it.

Why had he?

Was he to conceited and selfish to admit he was better with / because of someone else?

The fear of John-not-being-there and leave - like everybody else he had known had left in the past - was certainly a factor…

Also, during the time when he was away John was simply not available and it was only making things worse missing him.

How had he again got sidetracked? He needed to think about the case and how he had messed up!

The victim, he should check if there was maybe an online thing about the group and their activities, he doubted they communicated via landline or mobile alone. Maybe a blog…

Blog?

He had heard John move around until a few moments ago. And now the monitor-John-routine kicked in and began to hum in alarm.

Sherlock held his breath and felt his heartbeat speed up.

But then… he heard John's bed squeak and he swore silently about the stress the program caused. He needed to configure the sensitivity of that routine and bring it down a bit.

When he tried to see the configuration file it slipped away from him.

He tried to open it again and realised he was suddenly in his mind palace.

How had this happened?

He needed to think about _the case_!

He threw a virtual vase - that happened to stand in the hallway - against a door in frustration.

And since when was there decoration like vases for god's sake!

He shoved himself back to his physical room in the flat and when he opened his eyes his head was turned towards the bed.

He spotted the violin case under it. John had put it back.

He crawled the three steps to the bed and dragged it out.

When he opened the case something very deep inside him started to hurt.

He waited a moment and tried to identify the feeling, but he couldn't.

He had not held her for two years, not opened the case, not felt her, not smelled her… not played at all for _two_ years.

Sure, he'd had the opportunity to use other instruments if he wanted to, but he hadn't. It would have been betrayal.

This was sentimentality towards an wooden dead object, ridiculous!

He took her out of her cage.

She was as light and warm as he remembered.

He lied back down on his back and held her to his chest, the position she was usually in when he attuned her.

Staring at the ceiling he realised the hurt in his chest felt like caused by her and soothed by her at once.

Unsettling feeling.

But it was familiar, he had felt like this while he spoke to John from the top of Bart's.

He was tired. So tired, his body was and his mind was… tired of the whole thing, of the world in general.

Without planning to, Sherlock slipped into sleep.

 

**Monday late morning**

John was woken by his text alert.

Lestrade informed them that the veterinary student's body would be autopsied in three hours and that two new cases of missing persons had come in. John texted him back to inform Sherlock in one hour.

He dressed and went downstairs. The living room was empty and an unsettling silence inhibited the flat.

These rooms had been empty for two years and the melancholy John felt had an aftertaste of hurting loneliness.

Was this what made Sherlock feel even worse after his return?

Did he feel like John did after the fall, when he was alone in the flat and knew Sherlock would never live here with him again?

John sighed and headed for Sherlock's room.

Sherlock was on his back, still on the ground and - John held his breath - he held the violin to his chest.

Was he asleep?

John waited to see him breathe with his own breath held. When he saw it, he briefly relaxed. This was such a vulnerable sight… kind of intimate.

Sherlock had obviously not played, the bow was still neatly stored in the case, as was all the other accessories.

He knew Sherlock could sleep for long hours without even moving an inch but this was awesome. He looked like a sleeping statue, those ones on top of king's coffins with their swords in hand.

The temper-pin was hanging over Sherlock's left shoulder and the instrument moved slowly up and down with Sherlock's shallow breaths. John stood there for some long moments, wondering if he should wake Sherlock.

"What time is it?"

John flinched, "Oh, I didn't realise you were awake."

"I wasn't."

"Hm, I was so careful not to step on any creaking floorboards."

"You didn't. Your keen look woke me."

"Sorry," John giggled.

"News?"

This must mean Sherlock had already figured out that Lestrade was texting John before informing him, was he angry about that? Was it worth a try to hide that? Would probably do more damage to Sherlock's trust, so better not.

"Call Lestrade."

Sherlock opened his eyes for the first time and gently lifted the violin from his chest. He neatly stored her back into her case and stood up slowly.

"I'll make tea," John disappeared into the kitchen.

 


	29. Monday late afternoon - The Morgue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock go to see Molly in the morgue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

 

Late in the afternoon, they entered the lab area and met Molly.

Sherlock had texted her and asked for a time when she'd probably be finished, but they arrived while she was still at work. She asked them to wait or put on masks and step closer. They joined her at the table.

"So?"

"She died of anaphylactic shock."

"Interesting."

"She was allergic to different types of mould according to her medical files. I contacted her former doctor."

"The mould was probably in the original WW2 gas mask because it was not properly stored over the years," Sherlock informed.

"Mask?"

"It's still missing. Old gas mask, you can see she wore one, here…" he gently shoved away the dead woman's hair to show Molly the hairline, then pointed at her jaw with his gloved fingers, "…and there."

"Oh, right. I wondered where those came from. I documented them of course."

Sherlock pulled out his notebook and wrote something down.

"This is the model that was used," he held up a printed slightly pixelated picture he had in stored in his notebook, "…there are not that many different types. I did some research and this is the only one that fits the marks… I assume she started to have trouble breathing and then couldn't get the thing off because she was bound…"

"Bound?"

"Ehm, yes. I deduced they were doing re-enactment there. She played an air raid warden and I assume they were doing a spy story where she uncovered the spy who then took her hostage… and the other party was probably supposed to rescue her… and so on."

"Wardens… weren't those volunteers that helped in the war?"

"Yes," John answered, "they alarmed the people of an aerial assault. Brought them down to the bunkers, then stayed outside until it was over to give an all-clear signal. It was a dangerous and hard job, many of them died."

When Sherlock threw him a frowning look he asked, "What? I'm not allowed to know some things, too? I saw a documentary with Mrs Hudson some years ago, quite interesting." He turned to Molly, "In my eyes people who stay out during bombardment to protect others are heroes, loads of them female by the way."

Molly smiled at him.

"That's really interesting. So they were not doing some Nazi stuff there?"

"No… at least we found no evidence for that. We think the rest of the group found her dead and got so anxious they cleaned up and left without telling anyone, afraid of being accused for carelessness or murder."

"Oh, it's sad," Molly murmured, "Not really what friends should do, isn't it… I'm sure of the course of death, but there are some odd marks on her thigh I didn't recognise… But they must have happened shortly before her death."

"Show me," Sherlock ordered and Molly flapped back the covers.

"John?" Sherlock signalled him to come closer and have a look.

John moved over and realised his steps were uneven, slightly limping.

Shit.

The doctor looked down at the patterns, "Oh, yes, that looks odd."

He wasn't sure what Sherlock expected, but then remembered some of the old machinery stands in the warehouse.

Sherlock must have recognised them, too. Why was he asking him?

"Sherlock?" he looked up and waited for an explanation but the other man went down to her feet, looking for more bruises.

John wondered if the detective was testing him.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"What are you on about? Wanting me to state the obvious?"

"Obvious?"

"Yes. Those marks are from the iron stand of the really old machinery, looked like they belonged into a museum, quite nice actually."

"No. Where?"

"Across the hall, left side, near the column in the back."

"Sure?" Sherlock asked in disbelieve.

"Yes, of course," John said carefully.

Was Sherlock really this unconcentrated? If he was, he did a hell of a job covering it up.

"Oh," Sherlock looked actually ashamed, "Then she was probably _hurt_ during her arrest/discovery or she fought with someone. Could have been a part of the act. We need to find her _friends_. Anything else of interest?"

"No," Molly said a bit regretful.

John watched Molly eyeing Sherlock intensely while he went over her soles with his magnifier. She seemed to scrutinise him, looked as if she wanted to say something but held back. They had formed a closer bond during Sherlock's hiatus, John remembered.

Maybe it would be good to give them a moment.

"Anyone fancies a coffee?"

"Yes… no," Sherlock answered in an absent tone.

"Yes," Molly said.

"Okay, I'll get some. Back in a minute," John headed for the door.

Sherlock looked uncomfortable but not near panic and John hurried out.

 

"I made some copies of the autopsy pictures for you," Molly pointed at the desk.

"Yes," Sherlock approved, "Thank you."

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

"Yes, of course."

Why had John left him alone in such a situation? He didn't have the need to 'talk' to Molly like this.

"Because you don't look alright."

She had said that before.

He wished she'd shut up.

"You watch John as if he might get kidnapped any moment."

"He might does… _was_ in fact some days ago, I'm sure you remember. We still don't know who did it."

"You look really bad."

"I'm not supposed to say anything to a remark like that, am I?"

"No… you just file it as a sign of care and affection from another person, it means they want to help and be nice," she explained, having learned he asked because he really didn't know certain rules of social interaction, not to make fun of her.

"Oh," Sherlock knew he should have put gratitude into his tone but it was too much effort. What was taking John so long?

He was tired, the night hadn't been restorative and he was still not in the best of moods.

"You know you can still come to me… if there is something I can do… We did this before. I'm still here, you can always come to me. I'll help."

"I know. Thank you Molly," this time he managed to smile vaguely at her and she smiled back.

The next ten minutes were spent in uneasy silence.

They found nothing new and Molly covered the body again, signalling she'd do the rest alone.

She slipped out of her paper cloth and the gloves, then washed her hands.

Sherlock had sat down over the pictures on the desk and studied them in detail.

Molly tipped his shoulder to make him look up and when he did, she took his head in her hands and looked into his eyes directly.

He stiffened but to her amazement didn't yell at her and didn't shove her aside.

"You take care of yourself and… keep your head above the water, yes?"

The detective tried to wind out of her grip, which was not very tight, but she gently held on.

"Promise me, Sherlock…"

"Okay," he hissed.

"Good," she ignored his resentment and smiled, then kissed him on his hairline.

Sherlock frowned but did nothing to get away from her.

Three seconds later John came back, with three cups of the good coffee in a molded pulp cup holder.

"Did I miss anything?"

The fast and hasty replies he got from both Molly and Sherlock made it quite clear he had indeed missed something, though probably nothing about the case.

"Let's go to the lab then," Molly suggested and Sherlock fetched the files.

 

They spend the next three hours analysing the samples Molly had taken.

It was past nine o'clock and they were almost finished when she stated she wanted to go home now.

They had found some expensive make-up and residues of substances that were used in the factory during it's time of use, but nothing new or further clues.

Sherlock was getting really impatient about the lack of progress and John decided it would be best for them all to go home before the detective started yelling, the frequency of him being insulting had risen steadily in the past half hour.

Sherlock was not easily convinced but finally came with him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, this is NOT Sherlolly! This is just Molly caring and her platonic affection. Which I wrote into this because of the hints in S3 that they interacted during Sherlock's hiatus and grew closer in a friends-kind-of-way.   
> Thank you for reading.


	30. Tuesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to find out more about the MindPalace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

Lestrade called shortly after John had a shower in the late morning.

He found Sherlock on the phone, obviously with Lestrade. The flat looked as if the detective had spent the night experimenting on something.

"No, I won't come… Yes, text me when you find something… Yes… Yes… No… If you must…"

John was listening to the conversation.

Why weren't they going? This was not like Sherlock he thought once more.

"Yes…. Yes… That's no business of yours…Yes," Sherlock hung up.

"What's no business of his?"

"That's no business of yours."

"Oh, I so hope that is not turning into a standard phrase here," John said in a sing-song voice.

"It might."

"Then I might kick your ass," John said in a half joking tone, sing-song again.

"Five, John."

John needed about ten seconds to understand it was the level of interest for cases, sort of Sherlock's scale, in which cases were sorted into.

 _Five_ meant not worth leaving the house.

"Not related to our serial killer, then?"

Sherlock just rolled his eyes.

"Go have a shower then… and take your meds."

"Yes, Mum," Sherlock's tone was stiff.

The doctor smiled, the notion was usually not included in Sherlock's concept of 'jokes' if one could even call them that. But it was an obvious try at humour.

This was actually a tiny bit back to old times, Sherlock unnerved, them joking… this was good.

John had cancelled meeting Lestrade last night, who had offered to come over the day before. But they had all been tired last night and John really needed to sleep. He had barely managed to speak to Mary for ten minutes before falling asleep fully clothed.

He had slept well, the sounds of Sherlock experimenting downstairs and talking to him as if he was in the room had something good and soothing in it. The door to his room had been left wide open to hear what was happening downstairs. But the backside was Sherlock hadn't probably slept at all.

 

Despite Sherlock refusing the newest case, Lestrade came over in the afternoon to entertain Sherlock with the details of the veterinary student's case.

John decided to use the time to finally call Ella Thomson and ask a few professional things about how to help Sherlock, while he was sure Lestrade's presence would prevent eavesdropping.

Greg had agreed to yell if he wanted to leave when John told him about the planned call and the DI had understood the necessity.

John was not sure if Ella would agree to do this, and as it turned out she was not eager but she did. Having heard quite a lot about Sherlock she was at least a bit in the picture. She told John things to look out for and gave him advice for how to act in different situations. She was well aware that 'normal' procedures - which would comfort the average person - would most likely not work with the detective.

She was intrigued learning about the mind palace and suggested a few things and strategies to help Sherlock with the damage, of course she also tried to convince the doctor to bring Sherlock in. She didn't forget to insure he had done a good job so far, but she also told him this might be heading towards PTSD and that Sherlock needed meds and therapy.

They discussed things for over an hour and John was very grateful for all the advice she gave him.

In the end they made a date for the next week to meet, defining they would speak about John's issues with the topic. She offered to do 'Sherlock'-sessions like if needed after John convinced her this was the only way she could indirectly help.

When he returned to the living room Lestrade and Sherlock had both a beer in their hands and two empty bottles were already on the living room table.

"Is it that late already?" John asked, a bit surprised.

"Maybe… We solved the veterinary student's case and I suggested we celebrate a bit, but Sherlock preferred to not go to a pub," Lestrade informed him as if this was totally new to him.

John raised his eyebrows, "Really?" John fetched a beer, too.

Though Sherlock seemed to be at the end of his second beer it had done nothing to loosen his tongue or lighten his mood, yet.

Lestrade explained they had found the friends of the girl and they had finally spilled every detail about how she had died, what Sherlock had deduced had been right almost entirely but he had missed a few things. The consultant looked demonstratively bored, no doubt he had heard that in detail during the last hour.

Another ten minutes later John was roughly up to date and Sherlock had started his third beer. Drinking alcohol was so much not like that alarms started to ring in John's mind, he wondered how to proceed. He had planned to do another mind palace session with Sherlock tonight.

Greg went home shortly after that and John decided Sherlock needed sleep, he looked aweful. After almost fifteen minutes he finally managed to make a silent Sherlock get up and head to his bedroom.

Sherlock stated he did not want or need to sleep and John tried to just make him sit down for a bit.

The slim and pale man had dark circles under his eyes and the beer had made them more prominent and him even more silent than he had been overall in the past days.

Sherlock seemed to head for his bed but instead of falling into it he knelt in the messy pile of blankets that were still on the ground.

John didn't hesitate and sat down next to him.

"Let's get you settled," he said.

Sherlock mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, "Get out."

John ignored him and just waited what his friend would do.

After almost ten minutes of pulling this blanket here and that pillow there he settled down with the open violin case next to him.

"Close your eyes, Sherlock," John said in a soft tone.

"What do you want? Go to the kitchen. I'm tired."

John hoped Sherlock was just disinhibited enough to make this work.

"I want you to close your eyes…. good idea if you really are tired…"

"I…"

"Shut up and close your eyes," John interrupted gently.

Though Sherlock pushed forward his lower lips in a sulky expression he did close his eyes.

"That's it… I want to see the palace again. Tell me about it."

"Can't you just move your lazy behind and take a look around for yourself?" Sherlock answered totally unexpectedly.

John didn't know if this was a joke. The other man seemed to have forgotten the fact that John wasn't actually able to enter his mind palace. John sat there with his mouth open for a few seconds, about the language and about the fact that Sherlock must be a bit more drunken than he seemed.

"I need your guidance."

"I want to sleep."

"No… Let's go somewhere fun. Don't you have nice places in there?"

"Nice is not what…"

"Oh, come on, there must be something cool or something you really like or…"

"No."

"You just don't want to show it to me."

"Right."

"Let's go to the space age level then."

"No."

Sherlock turned his back towards him and John was afraid he might be shoved away soon if he proceeded like this.

"What's in the cellar?" John asked innocently, more as a joke than because of interest, "Jam, bottled fruit and mixed pickles?"

"No need to go there, there's only Moriarty's cell down there."

"What? He has a cell in your Mind Palace?" This made John gasp in surprise and turn sober immediately.

"Yeah, need to contain him somehow, can't risk him running around, can I?" Sherlock mumbled into the cushions.

"There are people in there?"

"Sometimes, not as a basic setting though."

"Then how?"

"They come in here to kick _my_ butt when I'm lazy or…"

"You are never lazy Sherlock, you would be _bored_ within two minutes while being lazy and therefore you'd stop it. You have never been lazy… So what was it you try to cloak…?"

"Eh… I meant not-managing-to-keep-myself-going."

"Oh, and you translated that into 'lazy'?"

"No, others did. Told me I was lazy when I couldn't manage… things."

"When you were a child?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Who else is in there?" John poked.

"Everybody who or when I need his / her expertise on something, or certain qualities."

"Like?"

"When I need somebody to sneer at me a Palace-Version of Mycroft tends to make an appearance."

John giggled.

"How does it work?"

"They are images generated by the database I established about a person, with all their patterns of behaviour, knowledge, rhythms, and schemes of movements, etc."

"Am I in there sometimes, too?"

Sherlock hesitated.

"I am not?"

"I need you more on the outside. Sometimes I chose to ignore it but your voice is constantly hear-able in here, though."

"So my voice is there but I am not? I don't get it," John knew now he was getting somewhere.

"Me neither… It's different than with the other 'guests' in there. Maybe it is like an anchor, like a direct line? I can constantly hear you… It wasn't always like this," Sherlock had settled into his standard deep-in-thoughts-position.

"Now, when I'm _outside_ the palace I can hear you from _inside_ it, as if your Palace-Version is talking to me. When _I'm_ inside I can always here you, although I hear nothing else from the real world, needless to say you need to be within hearing distance."

"Is that why you talk to me when I'm not physically there? I always thought you did it because you didn't realise I went to work or so."

Sherlock didn't reply. He didn't know. John had indeed told him that he did that, from the beginning of them being flatmates in fact.

"What else is in the cellar?" John tried to gently return to the initial topic, it felt important.

"Vault."

"What for do you need a vault?"

"Put things in there I want to keep inside."

Interesting, not to keep them safe, then?

"Like things that are precious to you and you don't want to be touched?"

Sherlock was silent for long moments and John wondered if he had pushed to fast to far. But the detective seemed to be allowing himself to go with this though.

"No."

"What else would you put into a vault?"

"Things I want to keep inside."

"Why don't you put those in something like… a prison?"

"I…"

But after fifteen seconds he had found no explanation.

"What did you put in there?"

"No…"

"Sherlock, this is not dangerous, we are just looking around. No one is entering the vault, we are just discussing it's contents."

"It's not in there any longer."

"What?"

"I made the vault to keep the ghosts contained but they slip out sooner or later," Sherlock mumbled sounding very tired now.

"Ghosts of what?"

"Wisps of memories."

"What are the memories about?"

"I…" Sherlock's voice faltered and his breathing sped up.


	31. Tuesday night - MindPalace Session Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John explore the MindPalace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.
> 
> .
> 
> A general thing about my writing: If there's a change of paragraph in the middle of something happening / mid-event, it usually indicated a switch in perspective from Sherlock to John or vice versa.

 

"What are the memories about?"

"I…" Sherlock's breathing sped up.

"We are safe here, but to make sure we stay that way in the future I must know what things are labelled not-good," John carefully avoided any words that might imply danger, "We are absolutely safe… memories can't assault us."

"They… they escape as soon as I turn my back on them… then they scurry through the palace and cause further damage… or they attack me when I sleep."

So Sherlock _was_ talking about bad memories. A vault to contain things securely was actually something that was used in trauma therapy. Sherlock's mind had created that tool by instinct. This once more made John appreciate the great mind that Sherlock was.

It was actually amazing, the detective's mind trying to do the right things instinctively on it's own.

"Vault is good. Why do they escape? Is it damaged, too?"

"No… I don't know why. Built a new and better vault for them after the first… leakage… equipped it with the best technology… but they manage… I'm out of ideas. Don't know how they get out."

"Okay. Let's take a closer look at that. You built it?"

"Yes, whole new level, extra thick concrete, steel walls and high security code locks. Second level protection with more doors and vacuum room…"

"You seemed to spent quite some time planning that. When did you built it?"

"Some days ago."

Oh.

John was a bit lost. He was sure Sherlock was talking about keeping the memories of the torture and similar things at bay but if he had gone through so much effort to contain them and had failed what could John do about it?

"Maybe they moved around in the vault freely and manage to get out by their momentum." It was total nonsense but John needed to keep them working on the problem.

"Have you tried to bolt them to a wall? I mean separate them from each other and contain them in singles so they can't work as a whole?"

"Oh!" Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

This sounded as if he hadn't tried that yet and that he considered trying it, but John needed a clearer image.

"How did you put them in there?… No, sorry, I mean, what does it all look like?"

"Ball of dark and humming… swarm; sticky… difficult to hold. Brought the mass in there, shut the doors. Locked them, bolted additional locks and doors."

"Okay. Let's untangle the mass into individual memories and store them according to their danger and difficulty level," John suggested, till tense, fearing Sherlock might kick him out of the palace every minute.

"Where's the swarm now?"

"There are several of those masses, they segment and mend and… I don't know how many there are. There might be twenty seven or so…"

"Blimey," John realised this would be a lot of work.

"We only need one for the beginning. Where have you seen one?"

"I don't know."

"Let's go find it then."

"Would take ages to search manually…"

"How else can you search?"

"Call a memory I know belongs in there…" Sherlock answered, hesitating and John wondered if he meant to intentionally remember bad stuff. He was not sure this was the best of ideas.

But three seconds later Sherlock flinched and his face scrunched into a visualisation of pain. Sherlock took a deep breath through his teeth.

"The Serbian cellar memories are partially at… level four, third room to the right… Hovering behind a model of some of Jansen's kinetic Strandbeests… Oh, if you were looking for something cool and nice those definitely are," the consultant suddenly changed topics but his voice was strained.

"What beasts?"

"Oh, he's an… artist… ask youtube, they're amazing…but…" Sherlock's features contained not only pain but also horror now.

"Wait, don't go after them alone. What form are those memories in right now?"

"Swarm… like a swarm of bees who has moved out of their hive."

"So how does the beekeeper move them back?"

"Picks them up with a special box or sucks them in with a vacuum… sucking device."

"What do you think might work?"

Sherlock flinched again, "They have moved into the kinetic creature."

"What?"

"I can't pluck them without damaging the Strandbeests."

"What is it? Is it alive? Is it valuable?"

"I… I need some apiarist equipment, it's on the third level, twenty-sixth room on the right."

"Wow," this was more complex than John had thought.

"What do you plan to do?"

"Catch them with the Beest and put it all into the box and then put the box into the vault."

"That won't work, you did that before, right?"

"Not with the box, maybe they will like it in there with the Beest and stay put."

"No they won't. They will damage the beast and move on. We need to dismantle them bit by bit. Like separating the swarm of bees an put every bee in a single little box of it's own."

Sherlock gulped and shook his head, probably without realising his body was actually doing it physically. His breathing was speeding up again.

"I'll help you with this. It will take time but I think it is a new strategy that needs trying."

"What's the room you found them in like? Can we sort them out here or do we need to go somewhere else. A tiny space without much corners to hide would probably be good."

"Not here… Conservatory, loft level."

"Right. Put them in the box and then let's go… Does the mind palace actually have an outside-area?"

"No… it's just 'insides'."

"Yeah, but aren't there windows?"

"There are and light is getting in but I can't look outside… it's just light and darkness out there. It has no outside. Never needed one… It's carved into space."

John didn't really understand but it didn't matter… there was no outside, period.

 

Sherlock reached for the box and tried to maneuver the model of the Strandbeest - he had built it after he had seen Jansen's beautiful work in his late teens - inside, but the model was too large.

He could fetch a larger box.

Oh, hell, since when was the palace so clumsy?!

Usually boxes refitted in size automatically and he had _never_ encountered this kind of ridiculous everyday problems in here.

Shrink the object or enlarge the box - why didn't it work?

If this thing went on behaving stupid, he'd need to get a lifting cart next to lift the box.

He growled in frustration.

This was not supposed to be troublesome and logistically difficult, this was his _mind_ , it was shaped and reformed to _his_ bloody needs!

"Sherlock, what is it?" John's voice echoed through the large mental room.

"Palace is behaving stupid."

"What?… In what way?"

"It's developing real-life physics, I can't fit the box and I can't shrink the Beest."

"You normally do that?… Of course you do, sorry, stupid question."

After several inconvenient tries Sherlock finally managed to fit the box to the object and now found he didn't want to touch the swarm of ugliness.

He fetched his gloves and with them managed to shove and drag the thing into the box, glad the Beest had feet and walked with him. The hissing and clicking reminded him of how he had built the model and he smiled, it had been a lot of work and he had loved doing it.

He closed the box and started dragging it behind himself, feeling like a five-year-old playing with his parent's old suitcases.

As soon as he was out the door he transfered himself and the box to the winter garden in the loft level.

"Hey, what's happening, keep me in the loop," John demanded.

"I'm at the winter garden now."

He opened the box and flinched.

"The insides of the box have been covered in slime all over."

"Er… okay."

"What do I do now?"

He was lost, not eager to touch the stuff, his instinct told him to flee.

"Get settled, sit down, carefully remove the box, look at the thing."

"I'm not sure…."

"I'm with you, go ahead. What does it look like?"

Sherlock did not dare to sit, he needed the option to be able run.

"It… It shifts constantly. Right now it's like a mass of slimy quivering rubber bands behaving like a deformed ball of mealworms, slightly semi-gaseous and smelly."

"Careful, smell is very often an intense trigger… Certain smells and spices bring me back to the Afghanistan desert immediately… Do you recognise the smell?"

When Sherlock turned his attention on the smell he realised it smelled not like mealworms usually did.

It smelled like piss and sweat… Oh, God, his own sweat to be precise…

 _He_ had smelled like that in the torture-chamber.

His surroundings were getting darker and his throat was constricting with retching.

"Shit… come back to me for a moment, Sherlock… Open your eyes… come on," John's caring and soothing voice echoed through the high-ceilinged empty room.

It didn't work like that, he couldn't just jump from inside back at a moments notice, he needed a bit to make the passage, to get out. What was John thinking?

Sherlock gagged and his eyes were suddenly wide open, he was in his room. The fast change from the palace to reality made him dizzy.

John had pushed a towel between his face and the pillow but apparently nothing had come up.

It was not easy to batter the gagging reflex away, he felt shaken.

Why was this getting to him so much?

"You're okay?"

"Mmn," he mumbled, and he felt his face contort with disgust.

No need to share this detail.

Lying down was making it worse, underlined the severity of the odour's effects.

Sherlock tried to sit up.

"No, stay put for a moment. What did you smell?"

A warm hand on his shoulder, not holding him by force, more like resting there.

Or maybe it was supposed to soothe him? He didn't need soothing!

"Sherlock?"

He feared he'd throw up if he tried to talk about it.

"Come on… I can't help if I don't know what's happening."

John was right, he probably should tell him.

"Mm… Myself in the cell," he stuttered, "Days of old sweat, blood, urine… Oh, god…"

He heaved once more and pressed the towel over his mouth; his eyes closed to evade seeing John's expression. He fought desperately to stop the retching.

"It's all right, try to calm down. Deep breaths… Concentrate on the smells in here, it smells like your room, concentrate on the smell of home for a moment… That's good. Just let the feeling wash over you, it'll pass… What smells do you actually like?"

"I don't like smells, they _smell_ ," Sherlock opened his eyes.

"Oh, come on. There must be things you smelled during your life and though 'that's nice' especially as a child… or try to think of those that made you feel safe."

"Yes… Safe… library, Jasmine tree… Ginger Tea… Bow resin," Sherlock tried to sit up again.

"No, no, stay there, we need to go back."

John winced in sympathy and Sherlock needed a moment to understand that his face might show an unnerved or partially desperate look about the last sentence.

"We need a way to _deal_ with that smell for a bit, keep it at bay… Go back to the winter garden, we'll do it there."

He knew John was right. He couldn't run away from this, he hadn't intended to, but his body had forced him to take cover.

Sherlock closed his eyes and did as John told him, he was too tired and too exhausted to baulk and it felt kind of better in the mind palace with John's presence there.

There was still no image of John's body in the mind palace walking with him, he just heard him like from the speakers of John's own intercom system.

Maybe he should try to give the voice a body in here. But on second thoughts, that probably wouldn't work, John was too complex. Generating his behaviour was one thing, but coordinating it with the real John sounded impossible. John tended to surprise him, which made it quite difficult, he'd need to guess how John's body would act… he discarded the idea.

But how had the intercom had evolved? He hadn't consciously built it in or summoned the thing, it had just grown into the palace slowly in the past somewhere.

He steeled himself for entering the loft again and opened the glass doors.

The mass was still besides the shoved away box. Sherlock kept a safe distance.

Thank heaven the thing had not moved somewhere else during his absence.

"You're there?" John asked.

"Yes."

"Okay, how do you usually cope with bad smells from bodies?"

"I don't do that, I ignore them."

"Yeah, but you can't ignore this smell, it triggers something. So, how to deal with this? Maybe we can put something smelling good inside a dust mask?… What would you put in there, then?"

Sherlock held the mask and stared at it.

He shouldn't put something in there he really liked because it would mix with the triggering smells and then he'd be disgusted by it later because it reminded him of the cell, too.

Something strong, but neutral.

"How about vap-o-rub or tiger balm?"

"No."

Since he liked the smells after being in Asia and associating tiger balm therefore with something positive, he couldn't risk it.

"Fresh sage leaves, one in the mouth, one pricked leave inside the mask."

"Oh, right. So prepare the mask put it on, then return to that swarm."

Sherlock turned towards the diffuse form that was still clinging to the Strandbeest model.

"It's like a swarm of bees now, tiny elements, constantly moving, clinging to each other, but not a solid body…"

Was there a black hole in the middle? It felt like something was sucked out of the room by the thing.

"Do you think you could carefully pluck out one of the tiny elements and take a closer look at it? Try maybe to concentrate on the mealworm form, maybe it will come back, those should be easy to separate and they usually aren't dangerous."

Sherlock scrunched his face in disgust.

Why was this so difficult?

He felt like being asked to disarm the bomb train again, afraid to move, to touch, to disturb, to act at all and time was running out.

Usually he wasn't disturbed by ugly things, not even by maggots crawling on a decaying corpse. His tolerance of nasty things was high. What had changed?

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" John sounded as if he had asked several times already.

The detective nodded.

"Well, good. Can you try to pluck an element so we can dismantle the thing piece by piece?… You know the single parts inspected closely are not as dangerous as it might look in the whole. Like the monster in a horror movie, it's scarier in the dark when only seen partially. As soon as you see it in whole and in normal daylight it's a lot less scarier."

"You compare what we are doing to horror movies?"

"No. I try to describe the effect a close inspection and bright light on a single aspect has. I'm trying to encourage and convince you to dissect the thing. So try to carefully cull an element. Stop immediately if something is odd."

Sherlock put on his gloves again, and stepped closer.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This mind palace session is overall 15 pages in 'Word', so I decided to split it in three parts. Sorry if this produces cliffhangers.   
> To soften those I planned to publish chapters faster than usual (which I do hereby), but don't get too used to it, I won't be able to keep up that pace.


	32. Tuesday night - MindPalace Session Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

Sherlock put on his gloves again, and stepped closer, the thing was humming and still looking like mealworms/bees covered in slimy grime. His aversion to touching it made him grunt in disgust.

Then he fumbled for his pair of pincers, at least he wouldn't have to touch it directly. He tried to get hold of one of the quivering things.

It felt surprisingly solid, like a rubber band with a slightly harder shell; it wasn't easy to pull free, as if it was clinging to the mass with tiny tentacles, that stretched when he pulled.

The movement caused the smell to spread.

Concentrate on the sage smell, just refuse to smell all the other odours!

Finally he managed to pluck it out, but when it came free, he was so surprised by the sudden movement he dropped it.

Carefully, he picked it up and inspected the object.

It was the cut out part of an apple peel.

"What is it?" John urged.

"Oh, interesting. The letter 'U' that Moriarty cut out of the 'IOU'-apple. He besmirched our home being here."

"So is this an object you are angry about?"

"I… I don't know. Maybe… it feels not good that he was in here."

"Well, can you think of a way to destroy this thing for ever?… You could cook it and eat it."

"No, it feels poisonous."

"Oh, right, then maybe mince it and burn it and finally wash it away in the sink?"

"Yes. Sink…"

He turned to the lab sink and burned the piece of fruit over a Bunsen burner, then washed away the remains.

"Successfully burned and washed away."

"Good. Next one, stay careful."

Sherlock tried to pluck another element out of the hovering mass but when he pulled this time the whole swarm followed and he did a surprised step backwards.

He must have flinched because he heard John's surprise.

"Oi. Sherlock, what happened?"

"It… It moved with the worm I pulled, it's hovering free in the room now, separated from the Beest."

"Well, that's at least one thing, you like that model, don't you?"

"Obviously…"

"Try another one if this doesn't come free easily."

Sherlock did and that one behaved actually like a rubber band, it stretched and made him wonder what would happen if it whipped back.

Not sure he wanted to know.

Try another one.

The third came free easily indeed, like it had a rotten base. As soon as it was separated from the mass it turned out to be a piece of metal.

"This looks like… one of the decorative elements of Irene's phone… What is that supposed to mean?"

"Maybe you despise the fact that you liked her and that she was working with Moriarty and that is kind of a conflict? The phone stands for her betrayal somehow, doesn't it?" John provided.

"It's metal, I'll melt it."

"Yes, alright, but that won't make it useless… Maybe you should cast it in rubber or glass after melting it."

"Galantine might be good, or something non-conducting... Latex would fit the problem in a figurative way," Sherlock smirked.

"Fine, go on."

Sherlock did and then John suggested he built or found a 'prison box' for the tiny object, indestructible and suitable to be chained into the vault. And they did.

The chain was bigger than the box that finally had a size of about fifteen centimetres in height and width. The element of the phone had been about a centimetre in length and one and a half in height.

He wondered how many vaults he'd need to built, if they continued this they'd need many many more… and _years_ to dissect only this one swarm.

John seemed to sense his thoughts.

"Hang on, one more, then we'll have a break… Wait, Moriarty is in a cell in the basement, right?"

"Yes."

"Did he ever escape?"

"No."

"You realise that means he _is_ staying contained in his cell, not able to get out?"

"Oh!… Right, I haven't visited him, I just know he is in there, never getting out… and sometimes I hear him scoff at me."

"How about you built another one of those cells and we put the swarm in there before we leave?"

"Sounds good."

"Do it before we touch the thing again… How much time do you need?"

"Fifteen minutes."

"Go on, built that cell and I'll make some tea, you need some liquids or you'll have a hangover tomorrow."

Why was John mixing comments about actions in the real flat into the conversation of palace?

Disarray.

"Okay, make tea."

Several minutes later John's voice returned when Sherlock moved through the new padded door and checked the lock. The cell was now next to the vault and an exact copy of Moriarty's one, though it was shiny new and Sherlock was not sure how Jim's looked after he had been in there for two years.

"What's up, Sherlock? Ready to give it another try?"

He heard John sit down next to him again.

"Yes."

Once more he neared the thing, preparing to move it and himself into the new cell.

Better provide good lightning there.

He switched on the headlights and carefully - with the pincers - held onto the not-coming-free- element from before, which now proved to be helpful. In contrast to most of the other elements of the mass it only moved every now and then and didn't dive into the interior for long periods of time.

"I moved the swarm and myself into the new cell."

"Alright then."

Sherlock once more slipped into his gloves and put on the sage dusk mask, then took the pincers from the movable storage container.

"Moving on, now," he informed John.

He pulled out a large mealworm-formed thing that twitched in the grip of the tweezers. Seconds later he pinched his eyes closed when he realised what it was. He tried not to flinch and not to let it fall.

"Sherlock?… What is it?" John sounded as if his distress had not gone unnoticed.

He felt John's fingers sneak around his wrist while his breath came in shallow gasps.

He stood frozen, trying not to drop the bodyless rat tail.

"Jesus, Sherlock, tell me what's happening."

"One of my… tormenters clipped off the tail of one of the rats that strayed through my prison cell, to demonstrate what he'd do with my fingers if… I fell asleep. It bled to death in front of me."

He heard the doctor breathe deeply and then John's fingers moved from his wrist towards his hand.

Sherlock knew John wanted to comfort him but the feeling of nausea he had experienced back then and the fear for his fingers exploded in his mind. A leaden maelstrom that paralysed his breath.

"Don't… touch my hands… Please… don't."

He trusted John not to try it and stayed in the palace; which took an unbelievable amount of discipline and trust. He forced his eyes open to look at the thing and that way rob it of it's horrors.

He had seen cut off animal limbs before and they had never caused this kind of distress in him.

The rat's blood dripped off the disembodied tail and the smell of rotting blood entered his nostrils.

When he felt his body gag again and tried to distance himself from his transport's input, it worked only partially.

Then something changed with his body outside the mind palace.

A heavy hand on his head, gently pressing down.

Body tensing with another bout of retching.

"Sherlock, can you put the tail into a safe container and come back to me?" John's voice echoed through the room, it was calm and steady but Sherlock recognised the distress hidden in it.

"Ye…" he breathed and hurried to carry the disgusting thing over and put it into a metal container, then poured CH2O over it and closed the metal lid. Ziptie around it to keep the lid in place and another one to secure the whole thing on the rack temporarily.

He stumbled backwards against the wall and out of the door, locked it then left the palace.

When he opened his eyes he was half on his side and half on his back, sprawled out across the floor, John was kneeling over him, still one hand on his forehead, the other one monitoring his pulse on his neck.

Sherlock was panting and a mercifully completely dry towel was under his face.

John looked at him fondly.

"You're with me?"

He let go of his neck and Sherlock nodded, breathing through his mouth. The touch on his forehead shifted to the side of his head. He had never thought it possible to welcome this kind of contact, but right now it was grounding and felt… he didn't know how, but not bad.

"Tedious… Put it in formaldehyde, locked it all inside the cell, bound to a shelf…"

"Good. I know this doesn't feel good right now and was a lot of stress, but I think we made real progress with this today."

"Please don't start to talk like a therapist," Sherlock muttered, distasteful choice of words.

John took away his hand and intently looked at him.

"Didn't meant to, sorry. We reclaimed some ground, that's good."

Sherlock huffed out a breath, this was indeed better.

"So when you start slipping into sleep this is what haunts you?" John didn't wait for an answer, "What else did they do to keep you from sleeping?"

"Chained me to opposite walls, relaxing my muscles too much meant hurting my shoulders… Risking to dislocate them maybe… Hit me when I slept on my feet, too… Punishment depended on who was on duty."

"Sleep deprivation, then. Must have been bad."

"John, no therapist pity talk, please! Torture is not meant to be nice. Getting the job done with whatever means necessary. Glad they didn't cut off anything vital or choose to waterboard me _before_ Mycroft arrived."

"What not-vital thing did they cut off then?" John asked hesitantly, his eyebrows drawn together.

"They discussed cutting off my fingers - threatened me with it. I'm sure they'd have proceeded that way soon," Sherlock ignored the question.

"Okay. I imagine it was really high on a fucking-bad-experience scale, therefore… You need rest, Sherlock… Give your body the chance to recuperate. Would you like me to switch you off to get some sleep for a change?"

"No."

"What would do you good?… What can I do to assist you?"

"Nothing… I don' know."

"Then how about you deduce something?"

John went into the kitchen and came back with a mug of tea and some bottles of water a few seconds later.

"Here."

They sat there for a few minutes in silence, drinking tea on the floor, both dwelling on their own thoughts about the session.

Sherlock put the empty mug down on the floor and then drank half a bottle of water.

He _was_ tired… nights without sleep, beer, _this -_ Not the best choice of modus operandi.

He closed his eyes trying to relax for a moment.

Dull pressure in his head.

He found he was absentmindedly rubbing his yingtang, the point between the eyebrows.

During his time in the temple he had learned quite a lot about those points… Now he rummaged around that knowledge.

Right, the translation of the point's name is 'Hall of Impression'… Great!

Applegreen sarcasm rushed over the tip of his tongue. He felt betrayed by his transport once more.

His mind felt stripped of it's good qualities, raw and sore. He drank some more water, just to dwell on the delusion that he was able to wash the feeling away for a bit.

Shoving the negative stuff away wouldn't last.

John accompanying him into the palace was… odd… and interesting. The doctor's mind often wandered paths he never thought of - or seemed to be able to find… 'Sentiment-paths', maybe?

As a war experienced soldier he must have learned how to do such things due to PTSD over time… or maybe just because he was a normal human being? His approach could turn out to be practical utility with this problem.

He sucked in air in surprise when his hand did a hypnic jerk, which meant he was on the way to slip into sleep. Panic poured into his mind once more with the threat of approaching sleep.

"Just do it, go to sleep. I'll sit here and make sure you're safe, just rest… come on. You can manage… I'll stand guard and do sentry duty."

His eyelids were heavy, the suggestion lulling him in, John's calm and soft tone inviting.

So tired…

The bottle of water was taken from his hand and something soft was dragged over him.

"Come on, you're already on the brink of sleep, just let go," John tried to coax him into relaxing.

He trusted the doctor and tried to let himself fall directly into sopor without a detour through light sleep.

But only seconds after he had finally managed to drop off, a new wave of distress jerked through him. He gasped, resurfacing to full consciousness.

"It's all fine, you can sleep," John made his constant presence known.

And he willed himself to go back and try again.

This time it took longer to get into the semi-sleep position from which he _just_ needed to drop into real sleep.

He was hesitating, trying to control the crossover as far as he could, he had used that technique to go to sleep for years*, it had never been easy - even before Serbia, but these days it was even more of an ordeal.

Emotions crept into him and demons flooded his mind as soon as his consciousness tried to drip off into the surface of sleep. These were nameless bad emotions and they made him feel like drowning.

He cringed, awake once more, gasping for breath… Nausea accompanied the mist of horror that rushed into him this time.

A whole minute later he was still breathing heavily when he realised John had his hand on his shoulder and his body was in a sitting position.

John was talking.

"That's it, breathe… Slow down… Deep breaths… You think putting on some music would help? You could try to concentrate on that."

Sherlock shook his head, music had never really worked, except for napping, because his mind constantly listened to the music and that way prevented sopor.

The doctor gently pushed him back into the blankets, although he himself was just thinking about getting up and doing something useful.

"I'll be back in a minute. Stay put."

Sherlock tried to calm down further, drinking some more water from another bottle.

The microwave pinged and John came back with an object that looked like a small pillow.

"What is that for?"

"It's a grain pillow."

"What?… What is it for?"

"Relaxation. Lay down. Close your eyes."

"What for? No," he needed to know what John planned to do and why.

"Er, sorry. I warmed it and you can put it wherever you want it," he held out the thing and Sherlock took it, lay down and put it on his chest. It was not hot, just warm, cosy.

"It's like a hotty, but you can shape it… and it keeps the form you put it in, to a certain degree," John explained.

"It's a bit cool for a hot water bottle surrogate."

"Yes, you chose the heat level according to where you want to put it."

"I want it on my chest."

The thing was certainly heavier than a bottle and the weight felt good on his chest.

He tried to steel himself for the next try. He was so very tired his lids hurt from being open.

This time he reached the drop off point quickly but then stood there hesitating for a long time.

When he finally managed to slip under the surface and the panic rose he tried to let it wash over him and ignore it.

His body resisted though, tensing up. The stress was building up and he knew control would slip away again soon… and then he distantly felt a weight was transferred from his chest to his head, something heavy on his forehead and hairline.

"Go to sleep," John whispered.

Moments later two of John's fingers touched the bridge of his nose and then slowly moved up, under the grain pillow and started to gently press onto his yingtang point.

He panted softly, a bit overwhelmed with the intensity of the unexpected touch, all it's aspects of propinquity and it's effect on his body.

It felt like something was sucked out somewhere and when he exhaled once more through his open mouth he felt his body shoved out tension and other nameless things with the air.

He had no time to analyse the strange happenings because his transport took over and dragged him towards sleep on it's own.

Perception disappeared.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:  
> *read my story 'The mystery of finding sleep' for a more detailed version of my theory how his technique to find sleep might work, if you are interested.


	33. Wednesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds out more unsettling details about Sherlock's issues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.  
> .
> 
> Breaking bad things/memories down to pieces and then imagining to handle them is something I started doing in my early teens, I always thought it was a wonderful comic-style self-healing mechanism everybody had. The therapists I met in my twenties didn't think so, interpreted it all wrong and I never dared to talk about it again.   
> My Feelings/Sensations often have a physical appearance and often colours/structures, that's why I can imagine easily to handle them physically, today I know that is called synesthesia (not the handling thing, the perception).  
> Well, sorry, long real- life-stuff made short: I just wanted to say I have no real knowledge about mind palaces and I just mixed the superficial idea of it (read about five sentences on Wikipedia) with the way Sherlock uses it in the show and the way my mind does things.  
> I am just going with it, because it seems to fit in here by itself. Besides some aspects of it are fun and I thought the boys needed some more brotherly bonding containing some good moments.

 

 

John kept watch with his former flatmate for the rest of the night. Around midnight he took a break to call Mary, and when he finally became too tired to read he lay down on Sherlock's bed, wondering why Sherlock preferred to sleep on the ground.

While he looked over the edge of the mattress at Sherlock's sleeping form he went through the Mind Palace session from before.

It had been really amazing.

He had known Sherlock coped with severe stuff better than the average person.

Well, there _were_ times he had thought Sherlock was just too clinical and cold, or just a master of pushing stuff away and suppress his emotions.

But he had learned that was far from the truth, especially in the days since the detective's return.

It seemed the detective has effective self-healing powers in general. Those abilities probably took care of things, maybe without Sherlock even realising it, but why was this healing process not working properly now?

Was it plainly overworked?

Or could the damaged palace also translate into damaged self-healing?

Or maybe Sherlock had just buried too much there in the past years and finally there was a last straw that had overstrained those abilities?

John feared he was deeply involved in the last straw.

…or maybe _he_ was the final straw himself.

He felt actually a bit guilty about it, although his head knew that was bullshit.

It was not _his_ fault… He was the one who did the least to add to the shit that had finally hit the fan.

It was a long line of small disasters, aggressive criminals and wrong decisions… and no one's fault, except Moriarty's!

Hell, why hadn't Sherlock just told him the jump was all for show? This was still haunting and hurting him… and it would for quite some more time, he feared.

But right now he needed to figure out how to keep a close eye on Sherlock when he needed to return to work next week.

He'd need some detective-sitters for the upcoming weeks.

Mrs Hudson would help, Lestrade had offered it, too. He'd need to coordinate with them carefully… and he expected Sherlock won't like it.

.

They both slept through the night without further incidences and John woke when Mrs Hudson carried a clattering tray into the living room.

He turned out, Sherlock didn't even stir.

"John? What happened?" she asked him when he came out of Sherlock's room in rumpled clothes, probably with his hair wild and sleep in his eyes.

"He had a lousy night, I stayed with him," John mumbled.

"Oh, dear. That bad?"

He just nodded.

She had been away to get some peace and quiet because all the reporters and people that had besieged the house after Sherlock's return had been utterly exhausting. She hadn't been able to get the shopping done because reporters followed her everywhere and tried to question her. So shortly after John had arrived to stay over she felt Sherlock was watched after and had left to see some relatives.

"Tea?" she offered.

"Yes, thanks," John rubbed his eyes.

When she handed him a full cup John sat down in his chair and decided to ask right away.

"Er, he… he's having a hard time and I wondered if you were home next week… Could you check on him several times a day when I'm at the surgery… Just see what he's doing, if he is alright?"

" _That_ bad?" Mrs Hudson asked again and sat down, too - in Sherlock's chair. She looked really worried now.

"Sorry, dear, you wouldn't ask if you weren't sure… I know… I'll be home."

"You can call me or Greg at any time."

"Of course. I'll be here. Will you…"

She was interrupted by the ringing of Sherlock's phone in the bedroom.

John listened.

Some long seconds later Sherlock answered and then came out of his room, still dressed in his dress pants and shirt, which looked really messed up.

Mrs Hudson frowned.

"Boys, can't you even manage to change properly for the night?"

"The night kind of caught us off-guard," John informed her in a dry tone, while Sherlock was obviously talking to Lestrade, "Proper nightwear was the least of our problems."

"Yes… We are on our way… Yes," Sherlock said, he blinked rapidly to banish sleep from his mind. He had obviously been in deep sleep.

Then the detective turned around and - while he continued talking - went back to his room and closed the door.

John finished his tea and they did some more small talk until five minutes later Sherlock appeared again, fully dressed in clean and neat clothes.

"That's much better, at least partially," Mrs Hudson praised and held out a cup of tea, which the detective took without a word.

"Better get dressed, John. New missing person, Lestrade is waiting at her flat."

"Oh, okay," John hurried up the stairs to get dressed.

.

Half an hour later they met Lestrade at the front door of a flat. The young woman, who lived there had just finished her first year as a nurse in the local hospital. She had been missing for two nights now.

Sherlock catalogued the flat in minute detail _without_ speaking or pointing out anything. Greg was obviously surprised by that behaviour and looked troubled. In a quiet moment John asked him if he could help keeping an eye on the consultant in the upcoming week and try to keep him busy; the DI agreed.

 

After almost two hours of inspecting the crime scene they headed to the Yard to join a meeting about the case.

When the topic of monitoring the flat arose Sherlock spoke for the first time. It had been decided to keep the flat under surveillance beginning in three days, which the consultant found ridiculous and too late.

But no matter what he said he couldn't change the fact that the upcoming three nights the flat wouldn't be observed. Lestrade's superior refused to pull his men off the other important case that was drawing manpower away because it was a scandal involving an important politician that promised much more fame than the vanishing of a student.

John had to rein back the consultant when Sherlock started to express what he really thought about this wrong approach.

Although he agreed there would be no need for surveillance tonight, he stated that tomorrow was important. But they were told it was unfortunate, but there was no other way.

John already knew what that meant. _They_ would do the two nights. Greg was on Sherlock's side and tried to get personal for the other two nights but it was no use.

After the meeting was finished and they were alone in his office he promised to try to find some volunteers.

But even after another hour of telephone calls - which Sherlock and John spent comparing evidence picture of the flats of the other victims - Greg found no one free to do the surveillance. He even tried to find someone to sub for him so he could do it himself, but his superior stopped that effort kindly hinting towards his position and that he was needed.

In general the new superior seemed to be a competent man, this was the first time John met had met him. The superintendent that John had punched before the Fall no longer had the job and the former soldier was really glad about that fact, though he still was not sorry at all for hitting him in the face.

When they were about to go home Greg brought up another matter.

"Okay, you both look like shite to such an extend that I wonder if keep you away from the case would be healthier."

Sherlock looked actually dumbstruck about that. John of course understood the comment as worry.

"I'll agree to let you do this under one condition: you tell me about _everything_ you plan and _everything_ that is happening, keep me in the picture - I _mean_ it. Is your mobile broken somehow so you can't text, Sherlock?"

The consultant shook his head but kept his mouth shut and linked his hands behind his back.

"So why the hell don't you answer my texts?"

Greg sounded a bit impatient now and John realised he was not the only one getting no answers. He waited eagerly to hear the reason.

"I was not in the mood," Sherlock answered stubbornly.

"That's bullshit," Greg raised his voice.

"My fingers are a bit stiff, until this slight malfunction is gone I prefer not to," Sherlock pressed out through gritted teeth.

"What?" John and Greg asked at the same time.

John immediately stepped closer but Sherlock's hands were still behind his back, hidden in the sleeves of the coat.

When the doctor signalled him with a guesture to let him look Sherlock made a step backwards and his expression showed clearly he wouldn't allow any touch.

"Oh. You really mean that, this is not a stupid excuse?" Greg said, he was as startled as John was about that tiny fact. Sherlock's body language clearly said it was not an excuse, and the clenched jaw underlined the fact he was not ready to speak about it.

The doctor was a bit speechless. He had not realised there was anything wrong with Sherlock's hands. How could he have missed it?

"Sorry," Greg muttered.

"I'll do the texting… and you'll tell me to text the moment you find something!" John addressed Sherlock, "No more of that silent treatment concerning the case!"

Sherlock didn't react, at least that was not a 'no', it seemed as if he was just waiting for the conversation to end.

"Okay," Greg seemed to get that Sherlock was not willing to talk. He assumed it was because the consultant was frustrated that he hadn't found anything, so he added, "We're all frustrated, Sherlock, you're not alone with this. It's okay, we can't always…"

"No, it's not!" Sherlock hissed angrily and then stormed out of the office, leaving a once more stunned John and Greg behind, the door banged shut after him.

"Jesus," Greg let himself fall into his office chair, "Is he like that all the time?"

"No. In fact he has opened up a lot, well, a lot for a Holmes, and we're making some progress, but… this is getting to him more than he wants to admit. I better get after him… Care to make another visit at the weekend?"

"Depends on how the cases develop… I'll text."

"Right, okay. Thanks," John hurried out and when he passed Sally she wordlessly pointed towards the staircases with a resigned look.

John hurried down the stairs but when he reached the pavement Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. He fetched his phone and called Sherlock but he didn't pick up.

'Thank your for waiting for me,' The doctor texted and - cursing inwardly - headed towards the nearest underground station, it was already late afternoon and getting dark.

.

When John closed the front door of 221b and stepped into the hallway he stopped in surprise, screeching noises reached him from the flat above and he took a moment to listen. It sounded awful, like fingernails on a blackboard or an agonised animal.

What was Sherlock doing?

He headed up the stairs, listening closely.

The noises were coming in different trebles and… oh god…

His heart skipped a beat and he stood rooted to the spot in the middle of the stairs.

… it was the violin.

Horrified, he froze, didn't know what to do.

This didn't sound like anything John had ever heard coming from that instrument or from Sherlock.

It was not a song - definitely not - and not even the gone wrong try to play a piece.

It was a constant stream of dark sounds, reminded him of experimental music he had heard at school.

The sounds were hollow and disrupted by screeching noises that sounded as if Sherlock did something to the strings with too much force or the wrong direction or at the wrong point… well, something not good.

He listened.

This was not a product of being unable, it was a product of emotion, John realised with even more worry.

When Irene had 'died' Sherlock had composed, a piece that broadcasted sorrow but had melancholic beauty and harmony, it had expressed something gentle and graceful although it was clearly very sad.

But this… this was irritated, dark and kind of aimless.

Was this Sherlock broadcasting his feelings?

Was this why he hadn't played? Because he had feared it would sound like this?

Obviously he had not wanted anyone to hear it.

There was something else… Sherlock had said his fingers were stiff, but obviously not too stiff for this, this didn't sound as it did because of clumsy fingers, maybe they were even helpful to produce this kind of noises.

The tones alternated between faster and slower in a constant long stream, the sore disharmony made John flinch several times.

God, it sounded… lost, uncontrollable… and like hidden anger inflicted on the instrument. John wondered if she was in danger, but no, Sherlock would never ever harm her.

Some stuttering sounds disrupted the low constant other ones and John felt his stomach clench… This _actually_ sounded like someone crying, in deep grieve… and howling, disrupted by sobs and occasionally desperate tries to breathe in between.

He closed his eyes and listened more closely but was sure the sounds were solely caused by the instrument, the bow and other objects, ass well as Sherlock's fingers on the strings and the corpus… Although there was a constant low humming which's source he couldn't identify.

John went up the last steps until he was on the landing.

He listened another minute and it made his heart hurt.

The agony that poured through the flat was actually seeping into him, making him cold.

What should he do now?

If this was Sherlock's way of being emotional maybe he shouldn't disrupt it, he should allow Sherlock to get rid of the frustration in his own way, express it, grant it.

If he went in there Sherlock might stop and return to silently spiralling downwards to even more sinister areas, the man needed to get it out. This was somehow good, this _was_ getting something out, a step to deal with the mess and towards healing.

At least this was a relatively harmless way to get rid of the build-up frustration.

John decided to get up to his room and listen closely for any signs of trouble.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all the great and kind readers who take their time to read my stories and leave kudos or a comment for me, you're great.


	34. Thursday morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John ascertains the damage.

 

Half an hour later John's mobile rang. Sherlock's playing had intensified and he felt like watching a desperately crying child without being able to provide comfort or protect it.

He felt the need to go down there and hug Sherlock but that would probably be the worst thing he could do.

He picked up the phone.

"John?" Mrs Hudson asked, "Where are you?"

Her voice was trembling a bit.

"In my room, upstairs."

"I… Can you hear him?"

"Yes, of course, I know, it sounds dreadful."

"Shouldn't we do something?… I mean I tried, but he kicked the door close in my face without speaking to me."

"Shit, are you okay? I mean did the door hit you?"

"No, no, I was still outside in the hall… but… this is _so_ sad. I can't stand it. Can't you do something?"

"Er… to be honest I think he needs to get this out of his system, it would do him good to vent until he's finished, maybe then I can try to pick up the pieces, but right now I'd prefer not to interfere."

"Oh, dear… he's hurting, isn't he?"

"Well, yeah, but don't tell him… and don't pity him."

"I won't, I won't… but…"

"How about you get out of the house for a bit?"

"What if… the neighbours…"

"I'll deal with them, just get some peace and quiet, we don't know how long this might take. I'll watch him."

"Okay, I wish I could do _something_ …"

"You can't. He wouldn't let you."

"I wanted to play bridge tonight, anyway. Good luck, dear."

"Ta. See you," John hung up and blew out air slowly.

 

The ominous sounds continued for the next two and a bit awful hours, uninterrupted and varying in intensity.

John's nerves were a bit raw when they finally slowed down.

He had fought his own emotions and desperation during those hours and the mood was heavy on him, too.

Trying to read and answer mails had passed the time, and he had called Mary.

The urge to comfort his former flatmate was like something burning inside him, he felt so helpless… it was difficult that he couldn't do anything, although - as a doctor - he of course knew the feeling.

When the sounds finally first calmed and then stopped altogether John waited another half hour before he carefully tiptoed down the stairs.

The sight that greeted him was more chaotic than he had expected.

He stopped in the open door, hand on the doorknob.

The light was dim and only the standard lamp next to the armchairs was providing a bit of illumination.

Evidence pictures from the case that had been neatly pinned to the wall were hanging awry and several were damaged on the floor, as were papers and other stuff that was usually on the shelves.

There were also pillows on the floor and the room looked as if it had ransacked, though John was sure Sherlock had thrown or kicked things and made the chaos himself in his frustration.

The detective was sitting on the couch now, leaned sideways against the backrest, his back to John. One foot was on the ground and one leg folded under him. His head was also leaning sideways against the backrest.

He looked as if he had collapsed there after working himself into exhaustion.

John picked up some pillows and then rounded the coffee table to see his face.

Sherlock didn't react to his presence and the doctor switched on the standard lamp under the smiley, then sat down on the table next to the exhausted man.

Sherlock's eyes were closed but his breathing was laboured. He had the violin in his lab, the scroll leaned against his left shoulder, and was a bit curled around it, as if protecting it - her. The hand with the bow hung loosely down his side, the tip of the stick touched the ground limply.

John took in that picture.

Both, the violin and Sherlock looked spent and damaged… hurt even.

One chord was torn and the hairs of the bow were frazzled… Sherlock's own hair was a mess, too. His blue dressing gown now showed two lacerations on the front; a long fine bloody streak on the side of Sherlock's face made John frown.

"Sherlock?" he whispered.

He was not sure how to proceed, this was unknown territory and felt delicate.

Gently, he reached for Sherlock's hand… the one holding the bow.

Then he carefully pried open the other man's fingers and took the thing from him. He had it in the wrong hand, his left, usually he held it with his right.

The detective didn't resist but he was not limp at all.

John leaned forward to get a glimpse at Sherlock's face, which was hidden by the lowered head and his messy hair.

"Sherlock… I want you to lay down," he told him and slowly started guiding his shoulders backwards.

Sherlock didn't resist the movement and leaned back, taking the violin with him by his right wrapped around her neck.

He seemed not to care what was happening to his transport, he was just passive.

John fetched a blanket.

"I want to put the violin on the table, okay?"

When John gently lifted the detective's hand that held her to his chest, he met a short moment of resistance, but then the other man let go.

Sherlock felt warm.

With great care the doctor placed the instrument in the case on the dinner table, then covered Sherlock with the blanket and sat down again.

He wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's wrist to feel his pulse once more. The beat was thready and the exhausted man still hadn't reacted to the touch.

John took the hand in his and stretched out the violinist's fingers, with his own flat hand, they followed with more resistance than he liked and when he let them go they also took longer to curl back than they should.

Had Sherlock damaged his right hand during his time away? Why hadn't he seen this before? Sherlock was so damn good at hiding things.

The doctor took a closer look and very slowly uncurled and carefully examined both hands and every single digit. Two of the smaller bones had bumps that indicated they had been broken recently, but over five months ago. They where healing well, but John _could_ feel a general stiffness in both hands.

Then he continued examining his flatmate in a more over all way. He rested the back of his own hand against Sherlock's cheek, it felt like a light fever and Sherlock's face was quite pale, the dark circles under his eyes more prominent than before… even his bones were looking sharper, but that was probably because he was so thin at the moment.

Sherlock's expression was an emotionless mask, not showing anything. He was not asleep but not present either, or he was just surrendering to the doctor's administrations.

John decided to provide company and wait what would happen; he headed towards the kitchen.

He prepared a toast and fresh tea which he ate leaning against his armchair with the plate in his hand. His diet had definitely worsened in the past two weeks.

Half of his toast was gone when he heard Sherlock's breathing change to the slower and deeper breaths of sleep.

He relaxed a bit, this was good, not pleasant but hopefully a step in the right direction, a step towards Sherlock's old self.

After he had finished his improvised meal he texted Mrs Hudson and told her not to come up when she came home because Sherlock was asleep.

Half an hour later he retreated into his own room with his laptop and phone.

He left the door wide open and went to bed himself.

 

**Thursday**

When John woke in the morning it was almost eleven o'clock. He wondered briefly why his alarm hadn't woken him earlier.

Still a bit dazed by sleep he sat up and listened, the flat was quiet, suspiciously quiet.

He hurried out of the bed and headed down the stairs, pulling a jumper over his head in the process.

The living room was a mess, the same state it had been in last night, and Sherlock wasn't there.

"Sherlock?"

John headed towards the detective's bedroom, the door was wide open but there was no one in there, too.

Shit.

John ran down the stairs.

"Mrs Hudson?"

"Here," came her voice from the laundry area, two seconds later she appeared in the door.

"Have you seen Sherlock?"

"I heard him come down the stairs, but I was still in my nighty, it was before nine. When I reached the hall to greet him he was already gone."

"Great!"

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know," John headed up the stairs again and she followed him.

The doctor fetched his mobile and wrote a text.

'Where are you? JW'

"Uh!" Mrs Hudson made an strained noise when she saw the mess in the room.

"What has he done?"

"It wasn't like this when you tried to speak to him last night?"

"No!… Oh, Sherlock…"

She started to pick things up from the floor and put them back where they belonged.

John decided he needed a coffee while he waited for an answer.

When the water was boiling and Sherlock hadn't answered John started to get nervous.

'If you don't tell me where you are within three minutes. I will ring Mycroft! JW'

John had barely enough time to get the coffee started when his phone broadcasted the arrival of a text.

'Purchasing.'

What choice of word was that? Why didn't he say shopping? Was he doing something illegal? Sherlock never went to stores… Well, he had last week in fact, and he had of course _before_ when he needed something, but this was odd.

'Where? JW'

'Stop asking for thr obvious. Shop od course.'

John rolled his eyes. He felt deliberately misunderstood… and typos, no wonder Sherlock tried not to text, it must be an insult to his intellect to live with the fact that his texts weren't perfect.

But why wasn't he even trying to correct them?

John sat down at the dinner table, a bit unsure what to do.

After a moment he decided to just wait for the man to return and read the paper.

Mrs Hudson was still fetching stuff from the ground.

"You don't have to do this. Give it a rest and leave the mess for Sherlock. Sit with me for a moment, we need to talk about some things."

She made a huffing noise, as if saying 'good luck with that' but said nothing.

When she had sat down and John had fetched some toast, jam and coffee, he carefully explained the situation to her and why they needed to keep an eye on the detective and how.

He didn't give her any details, but when she asked - and she asked a lot, and even the 'right' questions - John answered truthfully but tried to soften the whole thing a bit.

Nevertheless she had tears in her eyes when she understood what had happened during the past week.

John asked her to keep an eye on the detective in the upcoming week when he had to go to work and instructed her to call him immediately how to act should Sherlock have something like a panic attack or was behaving strange. She agreed and then obviously needed to do something to keep herself busy and started to clean up again. John had finished his breakfast and helped her with it.

The violin was now in the open case on the coffee table and he picked her up.

The torn chord was gone. The bow was also on the table, the ripped hair a mess around it. The violin itself looked fine. No harm done. No scores or cracks, she looked like always.

His phone chirped and he put her back into the case.

'Need milk? Back im 20.'

Well, that was actually _kind_.

A bit confused John stood up and checked the fridge.

 _'Yes, milk, toast and sugar would be nice. Thank you. JW'_ He texted back.

Mrs Hudson had gone back to her laundry and he had roughly cleaned up the living room when John heard the front door unlock.

The former army doctor went to the kitchen to put the kettle on once more, deciding that making a scene about the fright Sherlock's absence had given him was not the right option after last night.

 


	35. Thursday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thing with the violin and the stake out collide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

Sherlock entered the kitchen through the hallway door and placed a grocery bag on the table.

The doctor looked up at him and tried to sound casual when he asked "Fancy some tea?" Sherlock looked away and returned to the hall to hang up his coat. John had caught a glimpse of his face and Sherlock still looked awful. His eyes were swollen and he looked as if he hadn't slept in days, but at least he was clean shaven and dressed in his suit.

"Yes," the detective answered, it was barely more than a breath.

When John entered the living room with the tea, the detective had changed into his pyjamas and a dressing gown and sat on the couch with the violin in his lap.

Several pieces of equipment and some tools were spread on the table, together with what looked like new strings and a bundle of new hairs for the bow. But the funniest thing was a miniature vice, a comb and something that looked like an antique alcohol lamp.

John put the mug down in front of Sherlock and sat on the nearest chair to watch him.

The detective gently and slowly started to install the new chord, John could see now that the obstruction due to the stiff hands was quite profound when it came to fine motor skills necessary for this task.

"What?" Sherlock asked and John realised he might be staring.

"Er, nothing, I' ve just… never seen you do this. What is that?"

He pointed towards an object Sherlock had just picked up from the table. Partially to end the heavy silence and partially to show Sherlock he was neither angry nor staring at his hands.

"Fine tuner."

John continued to ask, and listened to Sherlock's explanations while the other man finished stringing and tuning the chords.

Then he put the violin away and started unpacking the new bundle of hair for the bow.

It took quite some time and it was a lot of work to remove the old horsehair and prepare the new bundle. Looked more like an operation than a repair.

The fact that Sherlock's fingers weren't up to the delicate work was making it hard to watch. But the musician was patient and although some tasks needed five or six tries he managed most of it.

John wondered if asking him if he could help would be good but then decided this was a ritual Sherlock needed to do alone.

It was like a healing ritual, taking care of the instrument.

A tiny object at the top of the bow held the bundle of hair in place, and it needed to be pressed into a space made for it. When Sherlock tried to push it and the hairs in, he dropped it twice, then tried with tweezers, and dropped the tweezers three times.

When John looked at his face it showed resignation, but he tried again, but the tweezers fell again.

Sherlock closed his eyes, he seemed to be waiting for a better idea how to do this, but then it turned into irritation and… shame?

John didn't dare to say anything.

Sherlock didn't move for several seconds, was just pressing his lips together into a line and John was sure he was trying to control his frustration. Then suddenly his eyes jerked open and he held out the small wooden square to John.

"You're a surgeon, you are skilled to assist with this. Put that in there."

John was so perplexed he needed a moment to blink.

"Today, if convenient."

The doctor chuckled.

John took the tiny piece of wood and moved over to do the procedure, he was in awe about the trust he was given.

But he did no more than what Sherlock told him, still not wanting to take over a too much active role in this.

Sherlock needed some confirmation that he was capable after all, his own state was getting to him enough. Everything that proved he was capable or showed he doing good was desperately needed.

Since the case was progressing extremely slow and John feared this was perceived as fails by the detective, he assumed it was really putting a strain on Sherlock's patience that his transport was malfunctioning, too. The doctor returned to his former place at the other side of the table.

Sherlock managed the rest almost on his own, using the tweezers and it seemed his fingers were less stiff after the lengthy task was done.

Two hours later the detective stored the bow away and picked up a black rubber object that looked like a large bulky comb with only five large fingers and placed it over the strings of the violin.

"What's that?"

"Mute."

"What?… Why didn't you use that before, especially at nighttimes?"

"I did. But the old one was not as potent as this one will be… And I used it for an experiment a while ago… it's broken. Nevertheless, it's effect is not as profound as one might hope, at least my parents where disappointed when I started to learn the violin."

John smiled at him, although the information was delivered in a completely dry tone.

"So you've been shopping violin equipment?"

"Obviously. Music store… nice one."

"You've been at the _music_ store for over two hours?"

"Yes. It's a large store with a variety of…"

"You've been nowhere else?"

"Grocery store… Are you finished interrogating me?"

"Sorry. I _was_ worried. Please just leave a note next time."

"Oh, right," Sherlock agreed and stored the violin in her case without playing.

"You are not playing? Trying out the new stuff?"

"No… Try not to ask the obvious so much, would you? It's exhausting," Sherlock informed him, but his inflexion was without spite. He fetched his tea, which must be cold by now, he sipped it without reacting to that inconvenience.

"Can we use your car again tonight?"

"Now you're asking the obvious… I mean sure… It won't go anywhere without me… or are you're trying to practise manners again?" John wanted to know in a slightly mocking tone and smiled at him again.

"Yes," the other man simply answered, then moved to the dinner table, booted his laptop and started typing in silence.

John hesitated a moment before he returned to the kitchen to do some more cleaning up.

 

The doctor in him decided that he needed to find out a bit more about last night. So, when they sat in the car later, observing the flat in the middle of the night, he asked.

"Sherlock, tell me about the violin."

They had already talked about the case, all kind of nonsense (like Anderson's new look) and run out of small talk topics.

"What about the violin?"

"Yeah, that's exactly what I want to know from you, so tell me."

"There's nothing to tell."

"Hey, it's me… I want to know why you haven't played any of the lovely pieces you usually play. I assume you haven't played before I stayed over, either… and I want to know why it…" He stopped himself in the last moment before saying 'freaked you out' "…why it stressed you when I touched her some days ago."

"It's okay for you to touch her… and I just didn't feel like playing."

"I don't believe you," John stated plainly, in a calm and kind voice.

Sherlock's posture screamed 'uneasy' and tense, even more than he already was these days.

"Stop nagging me with this nonsense, I need to think!"

Now, that was definitely a virtual door in John's face. Sherlock had opened up about so much recently but this was clearly a very massive door or a very sore spot.

John decided to do some more careful prodding nevertheless.

"Was it something I did?" John asked carefully, now wondering for the first time if it _had_ something to do with him. It was absurd, but he had to start somewhere.

Sherlock continued to stare out of the window into the dark. Either he was ignoring him or that was a 'yes'.

John frowned.

"Whatever I did, I am sorry," he said.

That got Sherlock's attention and when he looked sideways briefly John could see the distress and something more accrue in his eyes.

Shit, he _had_ done something wrong. It hadn't occurred to him, he had just asked that because it was the most likely to get a response, blaming the wrong person.

"Shut up," Sherlock's voice had a warning undertone and he fumbled for his mobile immediately, maybe to appear busy.

Frowning, John considered again if provoking him with this to find out what was actually wrong was a good idea.

Could it really be related to something he had done? What had he done? Sherlock would have told him it was nonsense if it wasn't his fault.

With his mouth slightly open in speechless shock about this insight, John reached for Sherlock's mobile and slowly blocked the screen with his fingers.

"Talk to me."

"I don't want to talk, let me work."

"What did I do, Sherlock?"

The detective let the phone sink and John flinched back when he saw the clenched jaw and the boiling anger in Sherlock's eyes.

"Nothing!" The detective hissed between clenched teeth.

"Your face says something else. Talk to me, I want to know if I hurt you. I want this friendship to work again, and that means I need to know what I did wrong, come on."

Sherlock undid his seatbelt.

"Stay here! Stop running away!"

He gripped Sherlock's arm, not with force.

When he heard Sherlock's surprised gasp he let go immediately, not sure what it meant.

Sherlock threw the manila folder with the paper evidence through the gap between the seats and the papers flew through the interior of the car. There'd probably have been shards if they had been at 221b right now.

John frowned.

Sherlock was frustrated and angry! He had done dramatic things like this before, but John had never felt this sizzling agitation radiating off him. And the most dangerous thing was the absolutely emotionless mask on Sherlock's face.

Whenever his former flatmate had done things like this before he had displayed exaggerated mimics about something, and John couldn't remember an incident ever before when the detective had been really angry _at him_.

Sherlock didn't direct anger at him… he didn't vent like that. He expressed frustration or was unnerved, but not like _this_.

"I do _not_ wish to talk," Sherlock pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, sounding desperate now.

John carefully touched his upper right arm again.

The fact that Sherlock had not yet run away signalled something… He would have done that in the past.

"Tell me… please. I need to know if I hurt you… I don't want it to happen again."

The detective gulped and John saw the tension building, the other man was like a statue, staring blindly ahead.

Then he blinked and John saw something change… Sherlock gave up the fight.

"Bed, gun, violin," Sherlock whispered.

John closed his eyes.

Only minutes before he was just poking, trying to find out what was wrong, and now it was clear he was part of the problem, he was kind of shocked.

Distantly he had seen it coming, he had feared the fact that Sherlock knew about the event would come up again, but he had pushed it to the back of his mind, horrified that the Sherlock had seen it.

And now this was involved in the problem? But what was it that hurt the other man so much about it?

On one hand he was ashamed to know others had seen him so shattered and broken in the weeks after the fall, in such a private moment, on the other hand still felt the shadows of the despair, the grief still so very present. It was _his_ right to be angry about the breach of privacy, not Sherlock's.

But maybe this wasn't anger, Sherlock didn't do anger.

"Okay…" John needed a moment to steel himself for this topic.

"What is it? Are you angry I touched her, or that I was in your bed or what?" John whispered back.

"She witnessed…" Sherlock started, his tone agitated.

Shit, yes, she did… as did Sherlock, though a long time later… as did Mycroft, maybe even directly when it was happening… half the fucking world seemed to have seen that.

Where was the bloody point?

Was it because he had considered ending his hurt?

Sherlock had no right to criticise that, not after making John think he had taken his own life, making him witness it. He had no right to judge it, nor John's desperation and exhaustion.

John bit back a comment about that line of thoughts.

"…she was there and I wasn't," Sherlock finished the sentence, but now his tone was barely a whisper.

The meaning of this simple statement hit John like a brick wall. It changed the angle of viewing the problem immediately.

It made John's breath get stuck when within seconds he went through a whole pile of emotions.

First relief about not really having done something wrong.

Then shame because he had considered ending it all.

Then understanding that wasn't the problem right now.

Then sympathy for he knew how helpless Sherlock must have felt.

…and then surprise that Sherlock was feeling like this.

…and finally he felt loved in a very platonic but intense way.

They sat in silence for almost a minute, John fighting to regain his composure, glad Sherlock was still staring blindly through the windscreen.

"That…" he cleared his throat, "That _harmed_ you?" he asked carefully.

Sherlock didn't answer, but there was no need, it was quite obvious.

This was the clearest sign of remorse Sherlock had shown about the whole affair yet, and there was so much hurt and regret pouring out of him right now, it affected John. He felt run down, not only by Sherlock's, but by his own emotions about that insight in his friend's sentiments.

He joined him staring out of the front window.

Although he was completely motionless, Sherlock's emotions were all over the place.

It took another minute before John managed to find words again. He decided not to comment on that and to redirect the topic.

" _Her_ silence hurt me… Still hurts me… I miss her voice."

"I'm… sorry I wasn't there…" Sherlock admitted and returned to the issue.

"What?"

Sherlock was angry at himself for not being there?

"I'm sorry," Sherlock repeated.

"Okay," John didn't know what else to say, it had robbed him of his speech.

And then another wave of emotions flooded his mind, it brought back how he had felt when he had been on Sherlock's bed, all the memories of the situation, and he realised the grief from back then was still very present, he was just speechless with the complexity and the sheer amount of different feelings.

He had not seen this coming.

So the detective was not angry at him, but at himself and she reminded him of his misjudgement?

John suddenly felt the need to apologise for considering the easy way out and for having her with him then.

When Sherlock was lost for words, too, John finally tried.

"I almost took the reason away that made you do everything you did… I'd understand if you were mad because I considered it. I was mad at you, too, you know, for choosing the easy way out… I was _so_ very mad and angry and hurt, Sherlock… Why aren't you angry at me?"

John still had one hand on Sherlock's sleeve and felt how the other man started to tremble.

"I don't deserve to be granted anger," he mumbled.

"Er… Sherlock, anger is something you feel, not something you are allowed to have or are given permission to have."

What was this about? Had Sherlock just changed topics? This statement was a bit bizarre.

"Do you also think you don't deserve her comfort?"

Sherlock kept quiet.

"Are you punishing yourself by not playing her?"

Sherlock was starting to shiver now.

Shit….

"Easy… Hey, come on."

The doctor had been relieved that Sherlock seemed not to be angry at him, but this little fact made him wonder if he was but didn't understood it, yet.

Still kind of in shock? Sherlock angry at himself could be far worse than at John.

John needed to work this out later, right now it was necessary to change topics, this was not the right moment to head into more severe distress.

"You deserve her comfort, as did I when I had her keep me company. You are hurt enough, Sherlock, don't hurt yourself even more by denying you the few things that actually could help you feel better," John finished the subject.

He knew he should say more, should provide comfort and encourage Sherlock, help him understand it was not the right way. But he was stricken by this, his mind blank and overwhelmed. He needed to let this sink in. If he tried to fix this now, it would backfire.

"Close your coat, it's cold… Here…"

Showing he cared was something subtle he could do, so he did. He held out a bottle of isotonic drink he had bought at a petrol station before.

"You need some sugar."

"No, give me that stuff with caffeine," Sherlock demanded in a tone that did not fit the message at all. He sounded small and exhausted and it was more like a plea.

The doctor handed over the bottle of energy drink, at least it had added artificial vitamins and stuff.

.

The rest of the night passed slowly and although John carefully tried to be as cheerful as possible and do light conversation about neutral topics, the atmosphere was leaden.

When dawn started to paint the sky grey Sherlock suggested John to sleep a bit because he planned to stay another four hours… or maybe the whole day.

John tried to argue but understood that the cloak of normal-day activity would be useful if the suspect tried to inspect her flat alone before bringing the victim back here.

But if he did, how would they recognise him?

But Sherlock was deaf to that argument and insisted to stay.

They moved the car several times and none of them managed to actually sleep.

At about ten in the morning, when John wondered how they could manage to do this for another twenty-four hours, Lestrade called.

"Yes?" Sherlock answered, "No… we don't need… yes… I'm not…No.… Fine."

His voice had become unnerved towards the last utterances. He hung up.

"What happened?" John wanted to know.

"The other case they have is almost solved and they now need to wait for results and interview the suspect. He and Donovan will do the surveillance until six o'clock so we can get some sleep."

"Oh, that's good."

"No, it's not. But I understand why I have to let them take over for a bit."

"Really?"

But Sherlock didn't elaborate, probably Greg had found a way to kick his ass when he tried to reject the offer for relieving them.

They waited and some time later Greg entered their car in the back to get an update.

 

Half an hour later they were back in the flat and John convinced Sherlock that this was the right time to remove the stitches.

It was only a matter of a few seconds and after Sherlock obediently let him do his work John headed upstairs.

The doctor was really tired, he fell into his bed, totally spend, but to wired to sleep as he discovered soon.

He texted Mary and listened to Sherlock rummaging around in the kitchen, clinging beakers against each other and using the Bunsen burner, if the hissing noise was any indication. What the hell was he experimenting with? There was nothing from the case that needed testing or that he had taken home.

Some hours later John resurfaced from an odd dream and turned onto his other side trying to get back to sleep.

Sherlock was still making everyday common noises downstairs, at least what was common for him, now he seemed to be typing.

The silent rhythmic clattering of the laptop keys lulled John back into sleep.


	36. Friday - Surveillance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time the stake-out has interesting results.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

The following night they spent once more surveilling the flat since Lestrade's people were again busy with their other case.

This time John was more prepared. He had brought sandwiches, biscuits and a thermos with tea.

When he offered some to Sherlock in the middle of the night the detective seemed shocked about the idea to drink 'old' tea.

"And how are we supposed to prevent it from _getting_ old?"

"Just bring hot water and make fresh tea."

"Oh, you've gained some camping experience while you were away? Camped in cars a lot?" John asked in a joking tone, he had waited for an opportunity to get some more background information about Sherlock's time away for days, not to talk about the bad stuff, just stuff at all, he was a bit curious.

"No."

"What then…?"

"Camped _without_ cars."

"Seriously? You camped in a tent? Sorry but I can't really picture that," John continued to provide mental images, knowing Sherlock would feel the need to correct them if he was wrong.

"No."

"Oh, right. Under bridges, then?"

"Sometimes."

"What? Really?"

This was a bit more shocking than the doctor had expected. He tried to imagine Sherlock without his tailored suits and high-quality shirts. He had seen him in disguise and known he wasn't demure when it came to such things as living on the streets, but imagining it to be more than for undercover work that lasted a few days felt just wrong.

"No, I'm just joking. Most of the time I managed to find abandoned buildings or drug dens." Sherlock's voice was dripping with sarcasm and he opened his eyes wide to underline it.

John wondered how much his flatmate had slipped back or was forced back into behaviours and procedures that he had discarded long ago.

"Oh, come on, I was just curious to learn a bit about your time abroad."

"So why didn't you say so?"

"Well, I just wanted talk a bit about the little things. There must have been _some_ entertaining details. So, where did you sleep?"

"Abandoned buildings, cheap hotels, outsides, expensive hotels, cars, cellars, and so on. Satisfied?" Sherlock spit.

John sighed, "I'm sorry. I didn't want to… make this awkward, just interested in a bit background stuff. Figured you're not eager to tell."

Sherlock fetched a cigarette and lit it.

"Shit, Sherlock, don't smoke in here!"

The consultant exited the car and John watched him walk a few steps away from the vehicle.

That went well.

John decided he couldn't let him get away with it. They needed to keep that level of trust up, needed to talk about things. Once Sherlock closed up again it would be almost impossible to reopen the door; also, John needed to keep an eye on his moods, which were not good lately.

The building they observed housed at least twelve flats and a lot of people went in an out during the evening, but the later it got the fewer there were. John lost track on who was who but Sherlock seemed to have figured that out, though he didn't found it necessary to elaborate; so John just watched and tried to remember the details he was able to see in the dim light.

The first half of the night passed extremely slow and they were silent most of the time, which stressed John immensely, he tried to make nice or fun talk, but Sherlock reacted unnerved or sarcastic without exception. The doctor's attempts to entertain him by telling him all day stuff earned him that he was ignored and sometimes Sherlock even surfed on his mobile when he spoke.

Overall Sherlock seemed withdrawn and tired.

The doctor spent a lot of the long silent hours thinking about how he could help Sherlock and how to make Ella assist with that, he also planned the coming week.

 

At around half past ten - when John was answering Mary's latest email - Sherlock tensed up.

The detective intensely stared at the windows.

"Saw something?"

"I see things whenever I open my eyes."

Sherlock said nothing more but relaxed back into his seat a few minutes later.

Half an hour later John fell asleep.

He woke when Sherlock tipped his arm.

"John?"

"Hm?"

"Someone might be in the flat."

"What?" John immediately felt the adrenaline rush wake him up completely.

"There's the hint of a dim flickering light."

"Okay, what do we do?"

"Let's go," Sherlock grabbed the torch and left the car. The former soldier fetched his gun and hurried out to follow him.

"Sherlock, wait! What do you plan to do?" John whispered.

"Just making sure there _is_ someone inside, _if_ there is, it is essential to prevent being spotted. We then follow him when he leaves. If we take him in now we'll never find the current hostage, we need to know how he gets in..."

"So, how does that help us?"

"Staircase first, then check the roof, which is more likely."

They hurried into the building and started to climb the stairs as silent as possible.

But halfway up the light was switched on and they heard someone on the stairs. Sherlock gestured John to just go on.

Two landings under the potential victim's flat a boyish looking man passed them, his head mostly concealed by a baseball cap, a hoodie and his greasy collar turned up.

The detective passed him as if all was normal, but the moment he was out of the young man's sight Sherlock turned around, a frown on his face, that was clearly meant to direct John's attention to the man.

When the man passed John he tried to look at him as unobtrusive as possible, trying to appear uninterested. Once he was behind him, he turned around to take a closer look at the man's statue.

But the exact moment the man also turned around and watched them. John saw that he was older than he appeared at first impression, but not older than thirty. When the man realised he was watched he turned back around and continued down the stairs.

John listened to his steps, they were _not_ getting faster and Sherlock had continued up the stairs so that it sounded as if they were normal inhabitants or visitors.

Had he seen that the man had seen John eyeing him?

When Sherlock reached the missing woman's front door - her name was Sandra Herman - he demonstratively stared down at her heavy coir doormat, which was not in a parallel line to the door.

"He saw me watching him, he turned around," John leaned close to the detective and whispered, in a very low voice.

"Sure?" Sherlock looked up at him.

"Yeah, of course I'm sure! He turned around to see if we did the same," John hissed.

Sherlock pointed at the mat and took out his keys to clink them as if he was preparing to open a door.

"What is it?" John whispered.

"We checked the flat before we started our observation, back then the mat rested there in the 'correct' way."

"Everyone could have jumbled it," John responded.

"True, but to make it get stuck under the door one has to stand on it while closing the door from the outside. If a person closed it without standing on it, it would just be shove out of the way. To shove it into the slit would take more force than anyone who accidentally nudged it would have," Sherlock explained.

He carefully pulled at the corner of the mat to underline how tight it was stuck.

The man's steps could still be heard on the stairs, he must be almost at the door.

"Anyone not in a hurry would have taken the time to push it back in the right position, since the door doesn't close easily like this. So if he _is_ our perpetrator why was he in a hurry?"

Sherlock whispered, a few moments later the street door closed automatically after the man downstairs.

That moment Sherlock started to run down the stairs like a bat out of hell. John blinked in surprise and followed him.

"I couldn't risk having him running off in alarm when we don't know where the victim is. He needed to feel safe and leave undisturbed. We need to follow him undiscovered," Sherlock panted.

"Well, the basic idea is logical, but he looked as if he already discovered us," John answered while they ran down the stairs.

When Sherlock reached the small staircase outside the front door he stood still and listened for a moment. He looked like a statue, sharpening his senses, his eyes closed while he listened carefully, then he started to run off into the side street at the right, John had heard the echo of faint running feet, too.

"Come on, John," Sherlock urged while starting to run full speed.

The doctor hurried after him.

They ran… and John smiled, this was like old times, he had never dared to hope they'd do this again, it was great!

But after a few hundred metres John realised that Sherlock was not as fit as he used to be. The other man was clearly having a harder time than he should have. John had no problem at all overtaking him.

They rounded a corner and John could hear the suspect more clearly now that they were getting closer. He was glad he was wearing soft shoes, Sherlock's were also a lot more silent than he would have guessed. They looked like his usual posh footwear but must be equipped with rubber soles.

"He might be… heading to the… subway station," John theorised.

"… or the… dark park… right next to it," Sherlock added, breathing heavily.

They ran down the street and rounded the next corner, and it became more and more clear to John that Sherlock wouldn't be able to keep up with him for long.

Another two hundred metres later the doctor realised he either left him behind or they'd loose the suspect soon.

Sherlock must have come to the same conclusion because he softly yelled "Go!" behind John.

The former army doctor sped up and heard Sherlock slow down. He briefly looked back to make sure Sherlock was okay.

The detective had stopped and leaned over, resting his hands against his knees for two breaths and then John heard him continue to run after him.

John gave full speed now and ran down the street. He saw the suspect vanished to the right the moment he spotted him, but it was too dark to see if he just went into the plants or into a driveway or a small side street.

John hurried to get there, hoping he'd still hear his steps once he was there.

He was aware that Sherlock was still behind him in the alley, the gap between them was large but he heard him run and pant. When John reached the point where the suspect had vanished he dragged his weapon out of his pocket and listened.

John could no longer hear or see him.

He stopped and held his breath to hear better.

Nothing - not even normal steps in the distance - which meant Sherlock had seen him stop and also stopped to enable him to hear better.

He turned around to make sure Sherlock was okay and saw him stand in the middle of the street, signing him to go.

John concentrated once more on listening.

Nothing.

No steps, no breaking twigs, no rebounding branches or brushed past leaves.

John went on to see if there was a gap in the bushes the man might have chosen to hide.

He went into the vegetation were the foliage was forming a gap, slowly, making sure no one was lurking in the dark.

He broke through the double line of thick bushes that opened to a line of trees and then headed to the mowed grass of the park. Street lights were on and the area was lit, so John would have been able to spot anyone running there, but the area was totally empty. He listened carefully again and there was nothing to be heard than the soft breeze in the leaves of the trees and a distant larger street.

The man couldn't have vanished into thin air!

But the grass would have muffled his steps.

John was panting, if the suspect had stopped he'd be breathing hard, too… or having a hard time to try to breathe noiseless, he wouldn't be able to do that for long, John needed to wait just a few more moments and listen.

But he heard nothing.

He waited… but even after two more minutes he wasn't able to hear anything. He cursed inwardly and wondered why Sherlock hadn't caught up with him yet. But he certainly would have made noises if the suspect would have returned to the pavement again.

John returned to the street, and made sure that the man wasn't back on the street heading to the subway station.

Nothing.

Shit.

They had lost him. John ran further down the street, looking for more hiding places, but there was nothing, just the official entrance to the park.

Huffing with annoyance he turned around to see where Sherlock was.

The fact that Sherlock was also no longer standing in the alley made a new rush of adrenaline run through his body.

Shit, where was he?

John ran back through the alley. When he was half through his anxious mind started producing scenarios where Sherlock had been ambushed.

To his great relief he saw the detective a few moments later, crouched down with his back leaned against a wall, behind a pile of damaged euro pallets.

"Sherlock?"

When John came nearer he could see the detective was still breathing heavily.

"Sherlock?" John stopped a few steps away.

The other man straightened and struggled to stand up straight.

"Sorry, lost him."

Sherlock hit his right fist into the brick wall, not angry about John, just frustrated about their failure.

The doctors jaw dropped in shock, that must have really hurt, but the detective kept a straight face.

With his eyes wide open about that he asked, "You're okay?"

Sherlock pushed himself from the wall, starting to walk away.

This was another sign that he was really not okay at the moment.

When the doctor saw he was walking on wobbly legs, he headed back down the street from where they had come.

"Hang on," John tried to step around him, "What did just happen?"

"Nothing."

"You ran out of breath."

Sherlock coughed, "Great observation. I'm fine."

John reached for his arm and stepped in front of him. He had done that a lot lately, but this time Sherlock didn't slow down his steps, he just looked at him, into his eyes.

"I'm fine, John!" he said with an icy tone, but John could see his sadness and the pain in his eyes.

A few moments later they reached the corner of the street where the car was.

While walking the detective pulled out his phone and hit a speed dial button. John fell into steps besides him.

"Lestrade, we believe we met out suspect,… No… he fled. He seemed to have recognised us when we passed him in the stairway… No… Yes, we saw a light in the flat… Yes… We'll go in there now… No… No. I said we will go in there now… Then you better get here fast," he hung up.

They were back at the house's entrance and entered.

Sherlock switched on the light and went up the stairs but was panting hard again when they finally reached the young woman's front door. He tried to suppress his loud breathing and produced the key Lestrade had given them. With clumsy and shaking fingers he then tried to fit it in the lock, it took three tries until he managed to get the key inside the keyhole, his efforts to be as silent as possible made the task even harder.

John just stood there and watched, knowing addressing it would be a total waste of time and only cause more frustration.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave some feedback.


	37. Friday - Saving a life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

"We wait until the light switches off again and our eyes have adjusted to the dark before entering," Sherlock whispered.

It automatically shut off several seconds later and while they waited Sherlock turned the key very silently and slowly, John readied his weapon.

Sherlock slowly pushed the door open and they saw there was a dim light on in the living room, like from nightlights or a small table lamp, they couldn't really see it because the door was made of milk glass.

They quietly entered the flat, looking around every corner before going forward.

It was total silence in there and John went to take a look into the bedroom while Sherlock waited.

A few moments later the former soldier came back shaking his head, there was no one there.

They both briefly checked the small kitchen and then headed to the milk glass door of the living room.

When Sherlock opened it John made a surprised huff, hurried to look into every corner and then hastened into the room.

Sherlock followed him, and then saw it, too.

A young woman was on the sofa, looking as if sleeping. He switched on the ceiling lamps and saw that her eyes were wide open.

The doctor was already taking her pulse and watching her pupils react to the light of this torch. It was clearly the missing woman.

Sherlock went ahead to search through the rest of the flat for an accomplice.

A few moments later they were sure they were alone with the woman.

"All clear," he reported to John in a low voice, it was the first time they spoke since before opening the door.

"Sandra?… Sandra, can you hear me?" John tried to get a response from the young woman.

While Sherlock tried to find out what had happened, John held out his phone.

"What?"

"Call an ambulance."

 

Sherlock was busy wondering why the suspect had left. It was surely not the time to get some cheap pizza from a nearby store… or was it?

The detective made the call to 999 while he checked on his phone for the nearest grocery store that was open 24/7, and he _found_ one.

The operator was aware he was only halfway with her and complained when he told her he had found a store.

Had he said that out loud? It was stupid.

He handed the phone to John who rolled his eyes and tucked the phone in the gap between his ear and his shoulder while he monitored the girl's pulse.

When had the suspect brought the woman in?

Sherlock felt his mind shift a gear up, going through the possibilities in record time.

Not while they were watching from the car?

At least not through the main entrance, and the back one only open into the patio. They'd need to check for other ways to access later.

He and John had made sure no one was in the flat before they started the surveillance, there was nothing visible from the outside. He had watched the windows half an hour to be sure there was a very pale flickering at all.

Sherlock went over to the windows and found that they had been covered from the inside with what looked like professional window covers for photographers, darkroom equipment or something similar, those hadn't been there before, and they had been installed in the dark or the near dark. Maybe that had been the movement he had seen first.

Had the killer been that careful, to work in the dark? Why should he?

Had he seen the police there on Wednesday and decided it was long enough ago to risk it? Unlikely, he wouldn't have brought her here if he hadn't been sure they'd be undisturbed, but why the window coating?

He had waved what he had seen aside since he saw no _more_ movement or light, stupid!

The detective returned to the hallway to look for anything else the suspect might have left behind, a backpack, equipment, anything that might look foreign.

He heard John speaking to the woman in a low and soothing voice. So she was alive and probably conscious, just paralysed by the drug cocktail.

The doctor seemed to concentrate on trying to find ways to comfort her and telling her to blink once for 'yes' and twice for 'no' if she was asked something.

"Sherlock, come here," John ordered, serious doctor mode. "Help me to lift her and put her on the ground," John continued when Sherlock stepped closer.

"Why?"

"So I have better access and she is more comfortable."

"Will she live?"

"Yes," John stroked her head and smiled at her, but when he looked up at Sherlock he grimaced a warning and hissed, "Timing!"

"Why do you think she'll be more comfortable on the ground?" Sherlock neither understood this nor the timing-thing. Usually John said that when he had asked or said things at bad moments.

"Could you not ask awkward questions? She can't breathe properly in that position. She's fully conscious and we just scared the hell out of her."

"Can't be that bad, we are not _him_."

"But she probably thought _he_ was coming back at first."

Sherlock looked down at her and saw tears in her eyes, which were switching back and forth between the two of them. John carefully kept physical contact to calm her while he talked to the Sherlock.

Maybe there are more evidence in the bedroom.

"Sherlock, can you help me here, please… and bring a blanket," John yelled after him.

So the detective returned with a folded duvet to the living room.

By then the doctor had dragged away the couch table to the other side of the room for better access to his patient.

"You are aware this is disturbing evidence?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes."

"I won't help you put her to the ground."

"What? Why not?"

"She won't like it…"

"Why not?"

Sherlock ignored him and turned away once more to search for evidence.

"Stay here and help me sitting her up then. I want her in a half sitting position. So she can breathe easier… We'll help you to sit up, okay?"

Why did John wait for an answer? It didn't matter if she agreed.

Sherlock took her arm, not eager to assist in the process or to touch her.

"Gentle, please!" John told him and carefully shoved an arm between her shoulders and the sofa.

He expertly lifted her into a sitting position, preventing her head from falling back with his other hand.

So careful, so caring…

Sherlock just stood there and watched, then his own memory hit him.

Had he looked like that too, when John took care of him before he collapsed a few days ago? The memory how it had felt when John had supported his head and guided him to the floor. So… kind and careful John.

He felt his head start to hurt and gulped down some strange sensations that had just jumped him, or where those emotions?

Another thing then started to rise in his chest. Memories of how he had wished for John's healing hands to be there… while he was hidden in the corner of an old dark building, lying on the ground trembling with only an old and stinky blanket.

He was freezing, he had been cold back there, too; tried to take care of dirty grazes and some other wounds, the remnants of a fight.

Frantically, he tried to blink the memories away, there were not welcome right now. He didn't want to remember them, they were only fragments but he recoiled from experiencing them, because he felt the grey horror hovering around them that immediately tried to enclose him, too. But he couldn't shake it, then he remembered that later he had hallucinated that John was there while he tried to fight off a fever.

The memories swirled around him, pressing tight into his head, much more graphic than he wanted them to be.

With sheer force of will and a repulsed exhale he shoved them away… But the sense memory of John's touch was…

Sherlock felt oddly naked and ashamed by seeing John caring for the woman, he fought the impulse to flee the room. He needed to get away, look for evidence, but his body didn't move.

 

"Sherlock?" John was holding the young woman upright and waited for Sherlock to give him a hand, but Sherlock didn't move.

"Sherlock, now would be good, I can't do this alone."

Sherlock didn't react and John had to twist his neck to look at the other man without letting go of her.

Sherlock stood there, holding her arm and staring into space, a painful frown on his face.

"Sherlock!" John spoke in a sharp voice and thankfully he saw Sherlock blink twice, then gulp.

The doctor saw the disoriented gaze and the stiff posture and knew Sherlock had visited bad memories.

"Here, take the blanket and put it in her back, please," John's voice was softer now and while he worked he eyed the detective closely.

Sherlock did as he was told, but it was clear uneasy with this.

When they had her positioned, John gently guided her head back into the cushion. She was crying and her breathing laboured.

He rubbed her arm and talked to her in a low voice constantly, but every few moments looked at Sherlock to make sure his friend was not heading into more severe distress, too. He observed that Sherlock's eyes were on his hands most of the time and his expression a careful placed mask.

John soothed Sandra by telling her that the police was on their way and that the suspect had fled and that she was safe now. It took some time but she eventually calmed down a bit.

John could hear Sherlock search the bedroom, he had almost fled the room but left the door wide open.

To evade an awkward silence he busied her with asking if she needed to take any meds regularly and if she had been injured or beaten. He repeatedly explained to her that police and medical help would be here soon and told her not to be afraid of the expected chaos.

Four minutes later John heard Lestrade bang at the door and Sherlock opened.

And chaos it was, about twelve people flooded the flat. After a briefing with the paramedics the young woman was taken to hospital with police protection.

It took half an hour before John had send them off and had the first quiet moment to step to Sherlock and look at him closely.

"You're okay?" he whispered, so that no one would hear it.

"Yes," was the unnerved answer.

"You are in pain and something unsettled you before, what happened?"

"I am fine," Sherlock hissed.

"Your head hurts," John stated, observing the signs.

Sherlock turned away and hurried to Lestrade's side; bombarding him with details of the chase and what he had found in the flat, which was not much.

 

Another hour later they finally left the flat, though Lestrade and his team where far from being finished with the scene.

The young woman was in hospital and they had been informed that she was physically fine. How much damage the time in the hands of the serial murder and the total defencelessness and helplessness during that episode had done to her psyche was not yet observable.

John was sure she had a pretty rough time ahead with that kind of trauma.

It was getting light outside and Sherlock headed straight to John's car. As soon as they were inside John fetched some paracetamol and his sunglasses from the glove compartment.

"Here, for the headache."

Sherlock shook his head slowly to the pills but took the sunglasses.

"Okay, let's get home, then."

The detective said nothing but leaned his head back against the headrest, giving John a short sideways look, John had no clue at all what it meant.

Sherlock looked tired and silently unnerved and…?

But although John didn't know what the other man wanted to communicate right now or if at all, another thing sprang into his focus. Sherlock had started to use his eyes again for signalling things, it had happened in the past twenty-four hours.

In the past, before the fall, they had communicated with gazes a lot. But since Sherlock's return that communication had been kind of muted or muffled. It was like one of their communication methods had been cut off. Maybe that was a bit why John had kind of felt so disconnected from Sherlock.

John had been aware that Sherlock's mimic was almost not present since his return and only now he realised how much they relied on that. Before, Sherlock had not only broadcasted, he had relied on John reading. Surprisingly, John found reading him easy and reacted according to what he saw.

They had no problems coordinating silently, though he had never been sure if Sherlock was able to read him, or maybe he was able but ignored emotional stuff consequently? However, the dynamics had been there, it had worked really well and John had always liked how they just fit, how their actions just worked together, how their coordination had intertwined, how much fun it was when it worked… and that no one else was able to read it, most of the time, though Lestrade was getting better at it.

Whatever it was, now that John had seen Sherlock's first hesitating tries to start that way of communicating again he realised how much he had missed it. _This_ coming back was a really good sign.

Had Sherlock deliberately switched it off while John wasn't there? Or had it gone away because the receiver had not been present? Probably.

Or because it was too dangerous to give away hints about his thoughts with the things he had to do?

John decided he'd incentivise Sherlock to use it as often as possible and tune into it again.

"Breakfast?" John asked, throwing the no longer needed observation equipment to the backseat.

"No. Tea would be great though."

"Buckle up."

Sherlock rolled his eyes to the ceiling and John laughed.

"Yeah, you are no longer at the arse-end of the world. Here, there are traffic rules."

"Oh, I missed those, especially those about on which side you are supposed to drive." Sherlock spoke to the ceiling with a vague smile. He had already said that some days before.

"So you are really glad to be back in London? You missed it?"

"What kind of a stupid question is that! Of course I missed London. It's like…"

But he failed to come up with a comparison.

"You should know how it is to be away, having been in Afghanistan."

John doubted he felt as close to London as Sherlock did. The other man seemed to need _this_ city. As a soldier he would have been able to work in another city if he had too, for Sherlock the idea seemed profoundly wrong.

"I bet London is almost as glad as I am to have you back here," John said and wondered how hard Sherlock had taken it that the suspect had escaped.

"This is kind of the opposite of your past two years, to switch from absolute secrecy to being famous within three days, isn't it?" John expressed his thoughts, "Must have been kind of a culture shock."

"Definitely need to get used to that again, didn't think of that today. He probably got away because of that." Sherlock continued sarcastically "Probably because both our faces have been in the media so often in the past weeks that all London knew exactly what we look like. I should have made you go up there, you are less noticeable alone. Dumb!" he spit.

"Sherlock, we saved a life here. Be grateful for that, that is actually a big thing. She'll live… and we'll get him later. Come on, tomorrow we'll find a way to hunt him down, now we're glad to have saved a life, be a bit optimistic. We _will_ fetch him, no doubts," John tried to lighten the mood.

Sherlock gave him a small faked and exhausted smile.

Then John started the car and they headed home.

.

When they reached 221b John pushed Sherlock into the sofa before the other man had time to get out of his coat.

"Let me take a look at your hand."

John didn't wait for Sherlock to protest, he grabbed Sherlock's forearm and carefully pulled it into the light of the standard lamp. He sat down on the coffee table once more and had kind of a déjà-vu.

Sherlock exhaled unnerved but said nothing.

The hand was clearly bruised from when Sherlock had hit the wall in frustration.

The doctor carefully checked for broken bones or other injuries for the second time in a few days.

He was sure it hurt when he stretched every single finger to check it and pressed over the metacarpals, but Sherlock didn't even blink, he just stared ahead.

John sighed, shaking his head.

"Why are your hands so stiff, Sherlock?" John had his own theories, but he wanted him to actually say it.

"My wrists and hands weren't overenthusiastic about having to carry most of my weight due to being chained to opposite walls for days. They went numb, but gladly they decided to get feeling back after I wasn't any longer bound."

"Bet that hurt a lot."

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Okay… I guess this hurts, too… Bloody stupid, you know… You are lucky, nothing broken. Let me get some salve and bandage that."

"No."

"Why not?"

"No!" Sherlock yelled and pulled his hand out of John's hold.

"Okay, then some ointment and you wait a few minutes until it's absorbed. Get out of the coat."

John stood up and collected a salve containing painkillers.

When he returned Sherlock was booting his laptop and John had to wait until he could fetch Sherlock's hand because the detective was not volunteering to stop using it. His body language was in fact a bit dismissive.

He ignored John taking care of the hand but did not resist, and as soon as John let go of it used it to type in his login data for something, getting salve on the keys, luckily it was a gel ointment not a greasy one.

"The more you allow it to rest the faster it will heal, you know."

"I'm fine."

"Of course… I need some sleep. I'll make tea before I go to bed."

John didn't ask him if he wanted any, just placed a cup next to his left hand before he went up the stairs. He was sure this was Sherlock punishing himself for being not capable to run fast enough before. He hadn't damaged the violin hand, but no doubt holding the bow would hurt. But since Sherlock didn't play it wasn't an issue.

.

He lay awake on his bed for quite some time until he finally managed to drift off. The events of the day making it hard to clear his mind, kind of. He slipped into sleep several times, but woke again, when his subconsciousness provided dreams he wasn't really fond of, like Sherlock hanging from a ceiling by his hands.

He sat up frustrated and drank some of the now cold tea that was left on his bedside table.

Another two hours later he woke again and refused to stop trying to sleep.

When he finally started to drift off he heard a low and slow melody from somewhere, or was he already dreaming?

He sat up straight in his bed and listened.

The melody sounded vaguely familiar and there was definitely someone playing a violin!

He let himself fall back into the pillows again and sighed.

The melody was melancholy and slow but Sherlock _was_ really playing!

Finally!

He listened closely, savouring the moment. Then stood up and opened the door wide, it had been ajar before. He returned to his bed.

There were flaws in the playing here and there.

Sherlock was also playing kind of careful, not using the volume the instrument had, as if he didn't dare to play loud. The mute was also working, but it was not was made the tones so hesitant and careful.

It was clearly distinguishable Sherlock hadn't been playing for a long long time and that his fingers didn't respond to his commands adequately, yet. But at least he was training them with this. His right hand must be hurting a lot but he didn't stop after he had finished the first piece.

John felt his emotions intensify when Sherlock changed rhythms and played a piece that sounded a lot more familiar, he had played that quite often in the past. John smiled into his pillow in the artificial dark of his room.

The playing got better over time and half an hour later it was still slow and halting here and there, but there were no wrong tones any longer.

John was sure this was a large step forward in Sherlock's recovery and quite some time later he relaxed into sleep again.

This was good!… And it _felt_ good, too.

 


	38. Saturday - Nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

John wanted to sleep in the next morning, but it didn't work, he woke early and wasn't able to go back to sleep. Sherlock's state of mind and his depression were getting to him, the detective's behaviour was worrying; the physical problems that had occurred last night during the chase were kind of disturbing, too.

The more alarmed he was when he heard Sherlock downstairs and the noises were clearly those of distress.

Was Sherlock having another bad dream?

John fetched his jumper and hurried down the stairs.

The other man was on the couch and clearly caught in the throes of a nightmare. He was curled into a tight ball and panting, now and then he made a strangled noise.

It sounded sore and weak and was so much out of character for the detective John felt his heartbeat triple within a few seconds, the vulnerability of the pose and the low noises causing him distress, too.

"Sherlock?" John spoke softly and rested his hand on top of the other man's wild curls, "You're dreaming, wake up."

He felt a minute shake of the head under his hand and - kind of baffled - realised Sherlock was at least partially aware, or was it a coincidence?

"You hurt somewhere?" the doctor tried to find out more.

"Why shoul' I 'ell you? So you coul' torture me where I already 'urt to intensify the'ffect?"

The former army doctor took his hands away in surprise, wondering if he was confronted with interactive dreaming or kind of a flashback.

Sherlock's voice was slurred but very hard and cold and it made John's hairs stand up.

"Sherlock, come on, wake up!" He shook the other man's shoulder.

"You're safe and home, this is John..."

"You're a hallu'ination, I'd those b'fore."

"You imagined I was there in the dungeon with you?" John probed.

"No, thought John wasin the dungeon wi'me..."

"Right," John puckered his lips, this was reminding him of somnambulating, which would probably mean that even if Sherlock managed to open his eyes he would sleep on.

"So if I am not John, who am I?… Look at me and tell me."

Sherlock slightly uncurled his upper body and opened his eyes, but closed them again immediately, they were dull and the lids swollen.

John looked at the his hand, it was getting blue here and there now from when Sherlock had rammed his fist into the wall a few hours before. Then his gaze fell to Sherlock's bare feed and his breath froze in his lungs.

Two of Sherlock's smaller toes were looking odd.

Oh, Jesus, they were both missing the toenails! And another toe looked oddly deformed.

That must have happened when Sherlock had been tortured.

John once more felt sick to the stomach with the unexpected sight of the damage that was not only done to Sherlock's body, but his soul, too.

When would this end, him lighting on new horrors his friend had gone through?

"Sherlock, do your toes hurt?"

The detective nodded quietly.

"Badly?"

A shake of the head.

Then he opened his eyes again and now the doctor saw full understanding coming back, Sherlock had apparently woken.

"How bad?"

"A bit more than in the past week."

"Shit, why didn't you tell me?" John was kind of angry but hoped it wasn't reflected in his voice.

"I hurt you enough already," Sherlock mumbled absentmindedly.

"What?… How?… I…" John was speechless but remembered a conversation from a few days earlier.

"Why are we having this conversation over and over again…? I hurt with you, yes, it's called empathy, it's not a bad thing. But by withholding things like that you hurt me because that's not entrusting me with it, that's a bad sort of hurting. And it's also bad for yourself, and that's even worse… Do you understand?"

Sherlock shook his head, probably still to busy with the remnants of the nightmare to even try to understand. John took a closer look at the feet, but didn't touch him.

There was nothing he could do right now. Examining them would only add to Sherlock's distress and all he could do right now was give him painkillers, maybe later he could fixate them with medical tape.

"What did you dream about?"

"Cellar."

"Was the state of your feet the reason you couldn't run full speed today?"

"Maybe, I don't know, I switched off the pain perception but something wrapped around me after running a few hundred metres and I couldn't function properly. Pain came back full force when… I stopped running."

"Maybe you re-broke the fractured toe by running?… Blimey, you should have told me!" the doctor ranted, "Can I touch it?"

"No."

"You want some painkillers?"

"No."

"What good would it had done if I told you? You think preventing a toe from breaking again is more important than catching a serial killer, really?" Sherlock was now his usual unnerved self again.

"No," John admitted, "But we could have done it different."

"But I didn't want to. I'm gonna watch telly, you can go back to sleep," Sherlock dismissed him.

"Fine," John knew this was all the other man would say about the thing for now, "There's ibuprofen in the bathroom cabinet if you want some."

"I don't."

"Just in case."

Sherlock didn't answer and John headed back upstairs, not sure if he could go back to sleep after this new revelation.

 

Sherlock watched crap telly for about an hour.

It was refreshing to see it, kind of. Same dumb discussions, same irrelevant chats, same stupid advertisements and uneducated characters at talk shows.

He had seen loads of different styles of TV channels during his time abroad, and equal loads of crap and disgusting stupidity the average TV viewer was expected to put up with.

For him television was an apprentice piece in deducing and social interaction. He had been criticised often because he knew nothing about trivia and all the daily nonsense people did, but it was interesting how different cultures dealt with it all and which forms of entertainment were 'hip' in which country.

But he was glad to be back in London, he had watched _BBC news_ from all around the world, grateful the channel could be received almost everywhere, but actually being in London again felt good, kind of safe, known ground… home.

After half an hour sitting up was too much work and he moved from his armchair back to the sofa, taking the remote with him.

His feet were getting cold and he put on the woollen socks he had found somewhere in his dresser a few nights ago. Why Mrs Hudson had put them there was beyond him, something this cosy must be John's, they definitely weren't his.

Unfortunately the TV wasn't enough to distract from his own sinister thoughts and his mind returned to the hours in the dungeon he had dreamt about… those tedious sickening hours when he had lost his toenails and broke at least two of his toes, it was one of the more vicious nights in there.

That night he had indeed hallucinated John was there and had tried to flee to his mind palace to escape reality, but somehow his torturer had managed to follow him, he sucked in air with the new pinkish pain the memories stirred up.

Try to keep the memories at bay!

Don't give in, don't think about it.

Don't…

But it was no use, something dragged his mind into the palace and he suddenly found himself in front of the new cell he and John had built to confine the bad memories.

He carefully took a look inside, the swarm of bad thoughts was pulsing in a threatening lava glow, red and black, in the middle of the room, it hadn't moved and besides the colour looked the same.

Good, that was good.

He relaxed a bit.

So what was the problem?

He hadn't wanted to come in here, but since he was already there…

Following the hallway he headed to the stairs to the ground level of the palace, out of the 'bad memory'-areas.

He had just placed his right foot at the first step of the stairs when a distant bloodcurdling scream disrupted the silence.

He stood frozen.

There were _people_?

Who'd get in here?

Burglars? Ridiculous! There _was_ no getting 'in' here, the palace had no 'outside', so how could anybody break in? There usually were only friends or images of people he wanted or needed in here.

This was more than ridiculous!

He headed upstairs, away from the noise. John had told him to stay away from problems in the palace when he was alone, and this time he would heed the advice.

He should be alone in here, it was _his_ mind… faulty mind. Maybe that was part of the malfunction, his subconsciousness running wild once more. Had the damage created some sort of breach?

He reached the top of the stairs and stood rooted to the spot when he saw the massive Victorian railing widened and was connected to a full corridor high and wide row of bars. Like someone had transformed the whole lower level into an antique looking prison.

No door that would allow him to pass the barrier.

This was impossible, how did this get here?

There was no other way up. Why hadn't he thought of building in fire escapes or something… but even if he had, bars appearing out of nowhere would have probably blocked them, too.

But… he usually transferred from one level to another without using any stairs, he tried to go to the second level.

The only thing that happened when he concentrated was that he was experiencing a headache.

This was so very ridiculous!

A siren started to blare in the distance and he frowned, he had never heard that one before. Maybe he should take a look.

Were the persons he had heard responsible for the bars?

Were they still here?

He closed his eyes and listened… and then he heard something odd, a gurgling noise, it was far away but sounded ominous.

What could cause this kind of noise? Focus!

When he hurried back down the stairs he once more remembered John had said not to go investigate, just get out of there. But he felt incompetent, weak and useless enough, if he now started running away from his own mind he'd soon be even more a mess than he already was, faltering with the tiniest problems.

There was no way he wanted to live like that! The mere thought was disgusting!

He ran down the stairs and when he reached the bottom of the first underground level he found the second one was completely flooded. The water had a muddy brown colour and rose at an alarming speed.

For a moment he just stood there, shocked and perplexed, not understanding how this could have happened.

Moriarty would drown and the swarm would drown and _he_ would drown, too!

The water rose and he took a step backwards.

If the water continued to rise the bars upstairs would prevent him from escaping, or had Moriarty escaped and built the bars to punish him for having him incarcerated?

He was paralysed with confusion and stared at the mess, until the water actually washed around his feet and the first thing he registered was hot orange and white pain!

What was causing the sudden agony?

Disorientation.

He stumbled backwards but slipped in the muddy liquid and when he fell his left calf came into contact with the water.

It was hot!

Startled and in pain, he managed to crawl up the stairs.

In between the sloshing and squelching sounds he heard something else.

Was that a whisper? A voice?

Was it really here? It might have been only the sound of the water.

He tried to get out of his hot wet shoes who attached the burning liquid to his feet.

Where was all this coming from? Such an amount of water was needed to flood an entire level… and with this speed it would need an inflow rate off…

He shook his head to prevent himself from trying to calculate the diameter of the inlet, the cubic metre every level consisted of and the speed… it was nonsense, no use to know it.

The water seemed to rise with more speed now and he had barely managed to get out of the shoes and socks when the hot liquid came near his foot again, he shifted up the stairs, knowing he must be nearing the bars.

No chance to swim at all in this water!

Then it happened, his back made contact with the solid metal of the bars and he sucked in air in horror.

He remembered that feeling, it was one of the worst ones he had ever met, though there was no word for it.

"Sherlock!"

That was clearly a voice!

Was Moriarty here? The gurgling made it unrecognisable.

He turned around to see if there was someone on the other side of the bars.

No one, the landing was empty.

He felt the hot liquid touch his bare soles and cried out in pain, struggling to get away.

 

"Shit, Sherlock, stop it!"

He jerked his eyes open and stared into John's face.

How did he get into the palace?

"Blimey, Sherlock, wake up!… Come on!"

John shook him, they were in the flat, he was sitting on the ground in front of the right side of the sofa, the blanket and some pillows on the cold floor.

"That's it, look at me!" John urged and touched him.

He tried to pull his hands away.

"No…" his voice was raspy and he couldn't grasp what had just happened.

Dreams were not like _that_.

Had he been in his mind palace? Was it really _that_ damaged?

"I need to go back, don't touch me!"

He tried to struggle out of John's hold on his shoulder and his wrist.

"Something's wrong."

"Go back? Where?"

"Mind Palace."

"You've been dreaming."

"No… no… I… I need to…"

"No, not now, out of the question!… I couldn't wake you for minutes, I can't risk you going there and get lost or worst. Stay with me."

Sherlock twisted himself free and turned away, closing his eyes, he needed to go back and make sure.

He willed himself to the top of the stairs, one landing above where the bars had been, to a position from where he could look down on them but was safe to run away fast, too.

When he opened his eyes in the palace he was in the exact place where he wanted to be, his heart was beating like mad and with shaky legs he moved to the landing to see the position where the bars should be.

But in mid movement he needed to pause for a moment to calm down his breathing because he was gasping for air.

Listen!

No sounds of water. He held his breath to hear better for a moment, still no water.

He peered around the corner, over the railing to were the bars should have been.

They were gone!

Sherlock exhaled and looked closer, no water, no mud, no steam, nothing. Everything looked normal.

In sudden exhaustion he sagged down to sit on the stairs for a moment, he felt sick and tired.

Maybe he should go back.

He opened his eyes in the living room.

John was kneeling besides him and examining him, taking his BP. Sherlock didn't struggle, just tried to breathe normally.

"What happened?" the doctor asked as soon as he saw that the detective was back with him.

Sherlock just shook his head.

Did this mean it really all had been a dream? Or had the reality of the mind palace mixed with a dream? Or maybe he had just dreamt about the palace?

"The mind palace… or something in it tried to kill me."

"Blimey. How?"

"Simmering water flooding the level where I was, first basement level, the only exit blocked by an iron lattice wall."

"Oh. Not good. Did it burn you?"

Sherlock hesitated.

"Where?"

"Feet."

"Okay, come on, let's get you off the floor. You need some tea and something to eat, believe me you'll feel better. I did extended tests while you were away on how 'not eating' makes your depressions even worse," John's tone was clearly carrying sarcasm and maybe a bit self-criticism.

He vanished into the kitchen and Sherlock slowly stood up. A moment later he heard John fill the kettle and prepare some cups.

It took effort to get his breathing back to normal when he heard Mrs Hudson come up the stairs.

"Boys?" she asked softly before poking her head inside the door.

"Good morning!" she continued when she saw Sherlock was awake and heard John answer from the kitchen.

"Good morning to you too, Mrs H."

"Sherlock, you look awful, dear! Did you eat at all in the past three days?"

When he only mumbled something unintelligible she turned on the spot and headed back down the stairs.

"Let me get some pastries for you guys."

Two minutes later she came back with a large plate of Sherlock's favourite pastries in two variations.

 

John made them all sit at the dinner table and have the first (almost) normal meal there together again, including Sherlock reading the paper and Mrs Hudson bringing them up to date on trivia about the neighbours. The doctor expected Sherlock to stop her but he just listened and even managed to react here and there or make a comment as if he had actually listened.

When Sherlock headed to the shower over an hour later and John and the landlady were alone she beamed at him.

"He ate!… And he talked… though I'm not sure he listened, but this is good, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Guess so," John smiled at her.

 


	39. Saturday evening - Mary arrives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

The night before John and Sherlock had agreed with Lestrade that they'd meet at Scotland Yard to make their statements Saturday afternoon. Interviewing the victim would have to wait at least until Sunday morning. They wanted to give her time to recover and Greg wanted to keep the case away from the public to protect her. They also wanted to let the killer believe he was safe, so secrecy about the events was essential. John had promised to make sure Sherlock wouldn't sneak into the victim's hospital room and try to interview her prematurely.

In the late afternoon John planned to pick up Mary, her lessons had been done on Friday, but she had looked forward seeing a friend who lives in a seaside town where she needed to change trains anyway and she wanted to take the chance to see her since she was already there.

After the late breakfast Mrs Hudson had provided, John showered and Sherlock did too an hour later. He didn't allow the doctor to examine his feet, though John tried to convince him that taping a broken toe would reduce the pain.

Overall the detective was not very communicative and appeared quite distant in his behaviour, but at least he had managed to sleep.

Around noon John sat down in front of the telly with his laptop. He watched the end of a documentary, waiting for the local news, while he typed a new draft for a blog entry.

The news had just started when the door to Sherlock's room opened and the detective scuffled into the living room, in a fresh dressing gown and with damp hair.

"Tea?"

"There's hot water in the kettle and coffee in the machine. You just had two mugs for breakfast," John looked at him with raised eyebrows.

"Did Lestrade text?" Sherlock ignored him.

"No."

The news report had started with another feature about the anti-terrorism bill but now the next topic was introduced and in the background of the reporter the picture of a young woman was shown - Sandra Herman; John turned up the volume.

"Sherlock, news report about the case."

The other man was next to him within seconds.

"...the young woman was found in the morning, drugged in her apartment. The circumstances of her assault are still unknown and it will probably take several days until she has recovered enough to be interviewed by the police."

The only thing the report showed was an outside view of the flat building at daylight and then a picture of the hospital entrance.

"Lestrade obviously didn't manage to keep everything important out of the media,"

Sherlock looked annoyed about that.

"The police has not yet given any information about what really happened, though it might be the case that this isn't the first incident were British citizens were drugged in their apartments. Thus might be related to a case we reported about several days ago, where a victim was found dead, but Detective Inspector Lestrade was not free to talk to the media yet."

A short sequence of Lestrade was shown when he came out of a building and reporters tried to get anything from him, but he just raised his hands, excused himself and entered his car.

"Stay tuned for updates on the case," the reporter completed the feature.

"Shit, how did they know about it?" John cursed.

"Leak, obviously," Sherlock disappeared into the kitchen.

"Right. Not what I meant."

"The plan was to not inform the public before Tuesday," Sherlock had come back and sat down at the dinner table with a cup of coffee, booting his laptop.

Two hours later John felt the leaden tiredness creep into him again and decided to take another nap, the previous nights had taken their toll on him.

 

In the early afternoon John woke up briefly and went to the bathroom. He found Sherlock sleeping on the couch, several used mugs and the violin on the coffee table, together with evidence pictures and documents from the case. John covered him with a blanket and went back to bed.

 

In the late afternoon Sherlock woke him by yelling his name up the stairs.

"We need to go to Scotland Yard, get up!"

"Shit, what time is it?" John mumbled.

"Sixteen fourteen," Sherlock replied, though John was sure Sherlock couldn't have heard him.

"I need to pick Marry up from the station at seventeen fifteen," John yelled back. "Would it be okay if I drop you off at Scotland Yard before?"

"They need your statement, too."

John finished dressing and left his room.

"I'll be right there after I picked her up. Text me if there is something important they need to know," John passed the other man at the landing. He wanted Sherlock to start texting again, the exercise would improve the agility of his fingers.

Sherlock stayed behind for a moment.

"You really need to pick Mary up? She could call a cab."

"I want to pick her up. She'll come to Baker Street with us."

Sherlock showed no reaction to the statement. John had wondered before if it would be better to ask him, but had decided he'd just inform Sherlock. The other man did the same with him, so once he should be allowed to do it, too. He knew it was a huge intrusion, but doubted Sherlock would see it like this, and he couldn't allow him to fall deeper into bad moods, which meant he shouldn't be alone. The past had shown the detective had always become worse after being alone for too long when in a bad mood already.

"I haven't seen her in days and I miss her, I'd really love to see my future wife and ask her how she is and what she learned and how she feels," John explained.

"I thought you knew her. Shouldn't you be able to tell?"

"Yeah, I can, but it'll cause me a lot pleasure to hear her say it and therefore I plan to ask her."

"Seriously? People really waste time on that? I thought it was the nice thing in relationships to _not_ need to talk because one knew what the other one meant… or wanted or whatever."

"Yeah, of course. But showing interest is also a way to worship a person that means a lot to you," John explained the obvious, rubbing his eyes.

"So letting her explain the obvious is a form of affection?"

"Well, yes, if you want to put it that way."

"I see."

"Do you?" John smiled and passed him, then went to make more coffee. His diurnal rhythm was blown to hell after only living with the detective for some days.

"Is that… why you asked me what I did during the last two years?" Sherlock asked with his typical and a bit stammering 'I try to put together difficult social things' voice.

The doctor froze in the entrance to the kitchen.

"Yes… no… There's a difference… I…"

"Explain," Sherlock ordered.

"Right, this explanation is for your ears only, just between the two of us, repeating it to other people would be really impolite towards me and towards them, got that?"

"Yess?!" Sherlock agreed, confused.

"Okay, explanation… We have been through this, but obviously you need a bit of a brushing up-course: Not-asking is not-caring… Asking is to be polite… Wanting to actually know is to be polite with caring a bit… and asking for details is... love, or in our case… friendship… The need to _really_ know what happened in detail is affection, a real need, because you feel like what effects the other person effects you, too, so you need details in earnest. Like if something would happen to Mrs Hudson it would affect you… and you'd really need to know all the details."

"Oh…"

"The levels of honesty that _you answer_ with need to be in relation to the affection of the person who asks the question. So you don't answer honestly when you are asked for politeness, like by strangers for example,… and you answer _really_ honest when the person asking loves you, like a friend or lover, makes no difference with this topic."

"Uhm, you mean…" Sherlock seemed kind of unsettled with this, out of the blue from John's point of view.

"Sherlock, you knew this, I told you before, why do you act as if this is news to you?"

"I… I might have deleted it."

"What?" John knew this argument, but… "Why?"

"I… couldn't afford real politeness and friendliness in the past years, obvious, when interacting with spies and killers, could I?"

"Oh,… you mean you haven't had any kind of nice human interaction on the road?" John had to admit he was a bit curious if Sherlock had made new friends, and then asked himself in horror if he was jealous once more for people having known Sherlock was still alive when he didn't.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I didn't want any interaction with strangers, and the kind of contact I wanted was not available, because I was dead to the people I wanted contact with... Of course I did interact when the need to get information or equipment arose, but it was a not by choice but by necessity," Sherlock was a bit impatient, about having to state the obvious, he intentionally tried to keep it superficial.

But John understood, the detective meant with him and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. That was a compliment and an obvious message that he had missed them, right? Besides, he totally understood it was the type of trust-no-one-mission the detective had been on.

"Can we go now?" Sherlock started to prepare to leave and John joined the activities.

He dropped Sherlock off in front of Scotland Yard and headed for the station to pick Mary up.

They barely had time to greet each other when John received a text from Sherlock that explained the former soldier's presence was needed. John was not happy, he'd like to spend some time with Mary and just talk, but she seemed curious to see Scotland Yard from the inside and explained she'd like to go. So they headed back there.

 

When they reached the right level there was a lot of chaos and distress in the air and John was a bit surprised, not what he had expected on a Saturday evening.

"What's happening?" he asked Sherlock as soon as he had spotted him standing in the middle of all the careering about policemen and detectives and forensics.

Sherlock stood there like a pillar, like waiting for something interesting to happen. His face showed an odd mixture of forced calm and delight.

"What are you doing?" John asked louder when Sherlock failed to reply.

"Breathing it in," Sherlock replied in a low voice that was almost swallowed by the noise.

John masked his grin with his hand.

This was good, especially when Sherlock was able to relish this instead of yelling at everybody for being dumb, loud and distracting.

"The leak sort of caused a major crisis. This might blow the whole investigation back to square one… I mean even more than we managed to blow it by letting him get away," Sherlock's tone was sarcastic now.

Lestrade appeared out of nowhere and signalled them to come to his office.

Mary, Sherlock, John, Donovan and Lestrade entered the DI's office and everyone except Sherlock sat down.

While John explained what had happened during the chase and how he had lost the suspect Mary listened with interest, she had not heard of the latest events, yet. Though John had called her almost every day and the recent calls had been brief because they both were tired from their days.

Lestrade wasn't really concentrated and neither was Sally. She wrote loads of notes, but probably only because she needed to remember later because her mind was in fact occupied with the more pressing thing: the leak.

 

Only half an hour later Sherlock raised his hand for a cab in front of Scotland Yard while John and Mary whispered niceties into each other's ear. It took Mary's comment to remind the men that John had actually arrived with a car. Sherlock started to giggle and John joined him, it was ridiculous.

"Habit," Sherlock smiled at Mary and they headed towards the garage.

When they reached the car Sherlock sat in the back and John asked himself if this was odd. Well, it alone wasn't, but Sherlock was withdrawn today.

He hadn't talked much and John felt kind of left out.

Was he distancing himself from John because he feared he might leave again, now that Mary was here?

The doctor decided to keep a close eye on that. He had asked Mary to stay with them at 221b to prevent Sherlock from feeling left out, and to make to make sure he wouldn't spiral any deeper into depression… and to be near if he needed help.

John talked to Mary all the way back, which took quite some time due to the ever present heavy traffic.

The man in the back kept his silence.

John briefly asked himself if he had retreated into his own thoughts or if he was listening. How often had Sherlock _really_ interacted with a couple? What did he know about this kind of relationship? Maybe his only comparison were his parents.

If John was honest with himself he was a bit anxious about the whole thing.

Would Mary still like Sherlock after she had spent a week in the same flat with them? And would she still like John?

Of course she would, but would it cause trouble in their relationship?

Sherlock could be a bit possessive.

But Mary was tough and she had heard a lot about the detective's behaviour before.

Mary talked about her week and the lessons and when she finally asked Sherlock if it was okay for him that she came with them to Baker Street the detective immediately answered.

"221b is John's home. You are an extension of John, aren't you?"

Sherlock's phone beeped.

"I am," she answered before John had really truly understood the meaning of the question.

John took breath to inform them he was no longer living there. But Mary raised her hand to keep him from talking.

"Then it's kind of your home, too," Sherlock said absently, now scrolling through his text messages.

Mary looked at John, who raised his eyebrows, she beamed with careful pride for the acceptance she was given. And now John understood this was not about where John lived currently or to make John move back in, it was about accepting Mary's presence. John had not dared to hope Sherlock would adjust to the hole thing this easy.

The doctor needed quite a moment to grasp this was really profound and didn't manage to overcome his speechlessness for quite some time.

About three minutes later Mary made a gesture like eating and John nodded.

"I shopped pasta and mozzarella, but we can order something, what would you like?" his question was directed at Mary but Sherlock was the one answering first.

"Chinese."

"Chinese," Mary said almost the same moment.

"Okay, guess I am outnumbered," John smiled at her.

 

The rest of the evening was quiet.

They ate and went to bed early.

John was not sure if Sherlock went to bed, but he had changed into his pyjamas and his dressing gown after the meal and at least looked as if he would when Mary and him said good night and headed upstairs.

 


	40. Sunday - Adjusting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

When John stood up Mary muttered she wanted to go back to sleep for a bit and he should have a shower first.

He decided to check on Sherlock first, make sure he wasn't wandering around the flat in a sheet or dissecting something on the kitchen table. He had warned Mary that he did such things, but he wanted to spare her that as a first sight on a Sunday morning.

He found Sherlock sound asleep in his dressing gown with socks on, on his bed for a change but without a blanket or other cover. A blister of paracetamol was on the bedside table, two pills missing; John assumed his feet and hands had bothered him.

He closed the door to the kitchen as quiet as possible and made coffee and toast for breakfast.

When he sat down in front of the telly with his ready to eat toast on a plate he wondered if they'd ever return to the habit of eating at the dining table like decent people, not like bachelors having unhealthy food while working. He had missed the ritual of their common meals, too, though Sherlock - most of the times - had only joined him for tea or coffee in the morning.

.

Almost two hours later Mary joined him in the living room. She was already dressed and greeted him with a kiss. A few moments later she joined him with her own plate and coffee watching the news.

"Nothing about the case today," John explained her.

He was curious why.

Had Scotland Yard found the leak?

Why weren't the reporters just repeating what had happened and added that there were no news, like they used to do?

But soon he found out. It was the first of December and the allowed time for the news was consumed by information about Christmas things around London and several other more sensational reports than a case with no news.

They watched telly, read emails and chatted.

.

In the early afternoon Sherlock rose from his bed, shuffling from his room directly to the couch, not saying a word.

John offered him first tea, then coffee, but Sherlock just shook his head. The doctor then decided Sherlock was not in the mood and went on with the normal things they used to do.

Mary sorted through her new teaching material and John finished the draft for the blog he had written before.

In the late afternoon Sherlock still hadn't spoken a word and finally Mary asked.

"Sherlock, are you 'not-speaking' because I am here?

"No," John and Sherlock answered simultaneously.

"Then you just don't speak on Sundays?"

"It's Sunday?"

"Ehm, not long, thought, probably since around midnight."

"Is she being sarcastic?" Sherlock actually opened his eyes and threw John an asking look.

"A bit," John grinned.

"Why?"

"I was just teasing," Mary vindicated herself laughing.

"Is that nice of you… or mean?" Sherlock asked bluntly.

"It's nice."

"Oh, god!" Sherlock exploded suddenly. "I better create a whole new database for 'Mary-communication-peculiarities'. Should have done that before… or better a whole new room in the palace."

Sherlock rolled his eyes to the ceiling, broadcasting he was unnerved but then closed them again and returned to his statue imitation.

John grinned, knowing exactly what his friend was talking about. This was actually another bit of the consultant being as he had been _before_. John kind of struggled with dividing things into _before_ and _after_ the Fall, but the differences where just too significant.

Sherlock was not himself lately and he was glad about every tiny bit of his usual self that surfaced, no matter how difficult that aspect used to be for him in the past.

"Now, what's that supposed to mean?" Mary asked curiously.

"Ask John to explain, I'm not in the mood for talking," Sherlock suggested in a soft and actually nice voice. "But please not now," he added when John took breath to explain.

The doctor shook his head towards Mary, grinning, and his expression said 'I'll tell you later if you want to know'.

The detective didn't see that, he was still on the sofa in one of his thinking positions.

John half expected him to burst out, yelling at them to be quiet any moment, but nothing happened. Mary carefully started another conversation with John and soon they were talking in a normal tone about all day things and organising the week.

.

Sherlock had actually taken his time to listen to them, breathe in their combined presence, the flat and how it felt when there was life going on inside it once more.

Sensing how Mary's presence felt, absorbing the nuances of her sentences and her voice. Creating a new database, detaching her entries from John's, where they had coexisted until now, creating new links with the doctor's entries, though, and making a whole new series of tags that linked those two databases.

Until now he had only linked his databases with John's and also his one with Mycroft's, but never two ones in which neither one was him, it needed a lot of adaptations.

He didn't dare to really put the whole thing into the mind palace, the place was still behaving a bit odd, for now only handling and sorting through the database-group of things would be sufficient.

He also kept watch of specific features of John's communication that only existed when he interacted with Mary. All the new information was quite a mess and Sherlock wondered if he'd ever be able to sort this out, but Sunday was only about sixteen hours old, so at least eight more to go.

No… Mary was probably one of those persons who uses to sleep… so maybe six.

He could sort out the accumulated mess later.

Would be some demanding hours, but maybe by then he'd established a foundation. At that point it'd probably be wise to sort some of it into the mind palace… no, he wasn't eager to go there, maybe later.

Mary's presence had definitely changed an aspect of the flat's atmosphere, though he was far from recognising what it was yet.

He'd figure it out, it was a dark shade of ivory in colour, that much he knew. The texture of the sensation was also similar to how ivory felt.

Need perceived: need for a collecting point for unknown sensations, utterances, sayings, phrases and movements.

But his own sensations kind of didn't fit into the group of others - establish secondary collecting point of 'view-of-everything-that-was-not-directly-and-actively-produced-by-her'.

He tried to relax into the sofa when he distantly realised his back was hurting.

He continued to listen.

 

His storing-information-process was disturbed again when John and Mary made him get up and help them make dinner, explaining he was supposed to participate.

He wasn't sure he liked it but it turned out to be quite interesting concerning storing movement patterns.

John bumped into Mary twice, clearly not used to a third fast moving object in the room, Mrs Hudson was obviously slower… or maybe it wasn't an accident that they collided? They kissed briefly and Sherlock looked away, feeling like he wasn't supposed to be a witness. Then it became even more interesting when Mrs Hudson actually came home and peeked into the room.

She immediately joined the mix and Sherlock felt like in the eye of a tornado. The flat had only been buzzing like this at Christmas.

He watched it for a few minutes, but then realised his mind was fading out the voices, busy with just adjusting to the unfamiliar amount of friendly movements.

The urge to go and get the violin grew the more the noise level rose, although it was definitely friendly it was a bit too much.

He finally followed the urge and headed into the living room, away from the kitchen's turmoil, reaching for the bow and the instrument. He tightened the bow and started playing without tuning it, a deep vibrating piece.

After ten long seconds of startled tasting surprised silence from the kitchen a dark green easing of tension reappeared and the noises and clatter continued.

Was it right? Was there a whiff of delight in the air?

No, he was probably imagining it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * See my stories Lessons in Friendship 1, Lessons in Friendship 5, Handle with Care for more detailed information on how those work.


	41. Monday - The hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Lestrade go to interview the victim, but unforeseen things happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.  
> It took me long to finish this chapter. When I wrote it RL was kind of difficult and I couldn't manage to work on the story because the topics were all a bit too close to home.

Monday morning John and Mary got up early to get to the surgery in time.

Sherlock was nowhere to be seen and therefore John decided to call him later to make sure he'd get up in time to meet Lestrade at the hospital.

Greg had texted them the day before and told them the victim was not ready to be interviewed until Monday late in the morning and that he expected Sherlock to be ready to be picked up at 10:00 o'clock in the morning.

Of course Sherlock had called Lestrade back and tried to find out more about why she wasn't fit to be questioned and if the doctors didn't understand this was urgent. He also tried to get some information or any news at all about the leak. But Lestrade had been frantically busy with the other case they still had to work on and had told Sherlock they'd talk later.

Sherlock rang him twice again but Lestrade hadn't picked up. About that fact the detective was not amused, which could probably be heard in Mrs Hudson's kitchen very clearly.

John just grinned at him and hinted at how often Sherlock had ignored Greg's or his calls in the past when he was busy and he'd better not complain therefore.

Sherlock had sulked a bit but then returned to explain several of his theories about tobacco ashes to Mary who was listening as if she was really interested.

So when they left the house as silent as possible, John decided he'd call and make sure his flatmate was awake at 9:00.

 

At 9:00 the ringing of his mobile made Sherlock literarily jump out of the bed in surprise.

He wanted his old mobile back, but it was no longer available at stores and Lestrade refused to get the original one from the evidence storeroom. Not even Mycroft wanted to help him get it back. He had already thought about nicking it - or looking for a used one on ebay.

Quite drowsy he reached the kitchen, no one was there, it was an empty ugly sensation.

This was the first time John had to go to work since…

Phone in hand, he stood there for a moment, listening with uneasiness for the sound of emptiness.

The flat felt dead - not good.

The lingering remnants of a nightmare wavered through his consciousness, there had been death, but other than that, he couldn't remember.

He felt awful, more tired and stiffer than the days before.

Everything hurt, his mind felt misty. From the nightmare?

"Sherlock?" John's voice came out of the phone and he almost dropped it.

Right, it had rung and he must have picked up - automatism.

"Ja."

"You okay?"

"Ja, mir scheint die Sonne aus dem Arsch."

"What? Sherlock, is that you?"

Oh, that might have been a bit rude. Not good.

He should go right back to bed.

Option meant to risk dreaming again.

Bad option.

"Sherlock? What is wrong there?" John sounded perplexed, voice raised.

"Nothing, I'm fine," he cleared his throat. "Bad dream, I guess."

"What was it about?"

"I don't know… something from the time in Hamburg, maybe?"

"What language was that? German, then? What was the translation?"

"Ehm, sarcastic comment about being fine when asked and it is obvious not the best moments to ask. Maybe like 'I'm peachy.' or something."*

"So what's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just regret that I tried to slept."

"Right. Lestrade will pick you up in an hour to see Sandra Herman."

"Who?"

"Jesus, Sherlock it's the name of the latest victim, are you awake at all, yet?"

"Nooo."

"Then go get a coffee and try to wake up… and try to figure out a mechanism that allows you to finally remember names, it would help you in real life profoundly."

"What for? Names are irrelevant. I like Mrs Hudson no matter what her name is, and I don't like Anderson, and I wouldn't even like him if his name was Hamish."

"What?" John was laughing. "Was that actually a compliment? That's kind of a really odd way so see that group of topics."

"I don't know. Compliments are relative."

"Okay. Your ability to wander off the subject has improved, congrats. I have to go, next patient is waiting. Lestrade will be there shortly, have a shower."

"Why?"

"Oh, Sherlock, don't… just do it."

"'kay."

He was on his way to the bathroom when he remembered John usually finished his phone calls with a greeting, he should have waited for that. But he continued to head for the shower and finally, the warm water managed to wake him up and wash away the bad remnants of the night.

Clean felt good and fresh, removed the numbness and made him feeling a bit more like he was in fact residing in reality.

On one hand he felt stupid being waken by John, on the other he was glad for every single tiny sign that John was alive and well.

He knew he was a mess right now, the past hour had been another proof of it. It became clearer and clearer and John was still with him. He was grateful, but that vague knowledge that he was, made something in him feel like bursting about that fact, burning and tight in his chest. He tried to wash that away, too, but it only faded to the background a bit.

 

Lestrade picked him up and shortly after that they were at the hospital with the young woman's doctor.

Sherlock stood by and watched Greg talking. Instead of listening to the boring conversation he deduced the man's activities from last night.

Interesting.

"Come on!" Lestrade tipped his shoulder and when Sherlock blinked the doctor had turned away and was walking down the hallway.

"That way," Lestrade led him down the corridor, where in the distance another doctor left a room and vanished around a corner.

Sherlock blinked, trying to get out of his thoughts and back into what was happening around him, he was really groggy today.

Something was not quite as it should be.

He couldn't… the man in the distance - his posture had been the opposite of his profession. Usually most doctors were self-confident and educated, and their posture showed that, or at least a certain amount of it, but even though his clothes said 'doctor' his posture said something else Sherlock couldn't identify.

Maybe he should stop analysing every detail that crossed his way and concentrate, he tried to blink the fog in his mind away, but of course it was no use.

Lestrade had asked for him to come, he was welcome to investigate, he should try to concentrate and not mess this up, too. He had screwed up enough things for a whole year in the past two weeks.

Concentrate!

"So how are you doing?" Lestrade asked.

"Do you really need to ask this question?"

"No."

"What?"

Did he mean it was actually obvious or that he wasn't interested, or was it just small talk? "Could you actually ask what you want to know?"

"That bad?"

"Lestrade! I didn't say anything!… Except that I uttered my confusion."

"'xcatly. Room 215," the DI nodded towards a room and Sherlock turned left, opening the door three seconds later without knocking.

He entered, Lestrade following a few steps behind him.

"You're supposed to knock, courtesy, Sherlock."

Lestrade hadn't even shut the door after them when Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks.

Something was off, but he couldn't grasp it.

"Mrs Herman? We're here to ask you some questions about your ordeal," Lestrade started when Sherlock slowly stepped closer to the bed.

Something smelled more like an operating theatre than a hospital room.

Lestrade approached, too but the young woman didn't react.

She was pale and looked like sleeping, and very small in her bed, even smaller than Sherlock remembered from when she had been on her sofa. His gaze automatically went to the monitor that was displaying her oxygen level and pulse rate.

The consultant detective frowned and then sucked in air in surprise, those numbers were not good, not good at all.

Before Lestrade understood what was happening Sherlock had jumped forward and hit the call button.

Next he dragged back the bedcover with a forceful movement.

"Shit, Sherlock, what are you doing?" Lestrade seemed badly surprised.

He uncovered the young woman's chest and revealed two stab wounds in her chest, one slightly right from the breast bone which looked superficial, but the another wound was nearby and bleeding profoundly, as if the first try to stab her had hit bone and a second try was necessary.

He had not smelled an operating room but her blood… Cellar…

Sherlock's mind froze.

Not good.

He tried to shove the thought away but only a fraction of a moment later he had to fight stunning nausea.

Desperately he fought to concentrate on what was happening again.

Sherlock felt everything happen in slow motion.

He turned around and ran after the only person he had seen in the corridor, the odd looking doctor.

Concentrate on running!

The smell of her blood in the air brought the smell of his own blood to the forefront of his mind, the smell was like in the dungeon, like the blood oozing from him and the dying rat. Nausea rose.

No time for that!

Lestrade gasped in surprise when Sherlock passed him on his way out, running after the potential stabber.

This must have happened only seconds ago.

The monitors started whining in alarm the moment Sherlock passed the door.

The only way to go other than the corridor was towards the stairways.

Sherlock found himself once more stand in a stairway listening for footsteps.

Nothing could be heard.

He had managed to run down two flights of stairs when he realised it was no use, it would be wise to call security, have the hospital in lockdown and see the CCTV material.

He listened carefully for another few seconds, to make sure.

No footsteps, no panting, no fleeing villain.

The fake doctor must have already reached where he wanted to go, left to flee through another ward, where his traces might get lost faster.

Sherlock had barely turned around to get up the stairs again when he realised his knees were shaking… he barely managed to grab hold of the banister and then knelt on the fist step to remain stable.

He needed to get up there, make sure security was called and…

Pale mint green disorientation swirled down the steps in front of him, the fake black marble mocking him.

Up, he needed to get up!

The smell of blood once more assaulted him, where was it coming from?

Something was off.

He felt sick. This was not good!

Get away!

He needed to get away!

The urge to flee was overwhelming, but seconds later he knew there was something more important!

Remember!

Lockdown.

He managed to get to his feet, but the moment he took the first step the door above him flew open and the aggressive sound made him jerk back in surprise. He felt the miasmic panic rush through his body.

Who was up there?

He barely managed to lift his head before he heard Lestrade yell.

"Sherlock!"

A moment later the DI was next to him, grabbing his upper arm.

"What happened?"

"Lost him."

"What?"

"Lockdown… get security! He went down the stairs… We need the CCTV footage, close all doors, have them look for him… Lock all doors."

When Lestrade didn't react immediately Sherlock shook him off.

"Go!" he yelled and the DI hurried up the stairs, running back into the ward.

Sherlock felt his pulse in his throat.

Uncomfortable.

Breathing to fast.

Slowing down was an effort.

This felt ugly.

He was sure it was panic he was feeling… or anxiety? Was there a difference… did it matter? It didn't.

He needed to slow down, he couldn't be discovered in this nasty state.

In order to make his transport comply he forced himself to only take half the breaths he wanted to.

It made him feel like suffocating at first, but gladly the feeling could be dialled down by the force of will.

It took a conscious effort and about six long and hard minutes to make his pulse and his breathing return to an almost-normal state.

During those he just stood there, stoically refusing to sit down or allow his body any more leniency. It did not deserve any for failing him like this.

He finally tried to move up the stairs he felt dizzy, probably from the sudden movement, but the sensation ebbed fast. When he found he clenched his teeth he made a conscious effort to relax his jaw, it reminded him off Mycroft.

It took a few moments to adjust but then he was able to walk safely, though the intense uneasiness of his rebelling stomach remained.

Meticulously, he straightened the jacket and the coat; trying to do the same with his mind was less successful.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *  
> Though I overall really don't like german translations here is one line I need to mention, one where the translation is better than the original line:   
> 'From dusk till dawn' (Spoiler ahead!), the main character just watched his brother die and the female main character asks him how he is. In English he says. "Peachy." As I understand that it's ironic, but actually the pure meaning of the word might have been used when saying it not sarcastic, too.   
> In the german translation he says "Mir scheint die Sonne aus dem Arsch." which means "The sun is shining out of my arse." The line became kind of famous, but I didn't know it. When I first heard one of my flatmates use it I thought it was another saying I didn't understand. I am really not good with proverbs and stuff and therefore had to ask what it meant. Well, my flatmates made me watch the film with them then. 
> 
> So, thanks for reading.


	42. Monday afternoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

Sherlock had barely done a few steps up the stairs when the door above him was thrown open again.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade yelled through the staircase.

He flinched, the echo hurt his ears and the sudden loud noises disrupting the silence felt like a blast.

"Here."

"You're alright?"

"Fine."

Nevertheless steps could be heard coming down immediately.

"You look like shit," Lestrade said as soon as he was next to him.

"Formidable observation, detective inspector. Status?"

"Surveillance tapes on the way, Mrs Herman in surgery, hospital in lockdown."

When Sherlock tried to move past him, Lestrade reached for his arm; Sherlock evaded the touch.

"Oi, are you really okay?" Lestrade leaned down a bit.

"Why does everyone ask me this?" the consultant hissed.

"Because you look like shite and everyone can see you're not okay, sorry, mate… I'm just honest..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"…and because some people want to help."

"I hope this does not include Anderson and Donovan," Sherlock tried to change the subject.

"Maybe even them, they _are_ kind of sorry."

"Anderson's way of being sorry is actually… disquieting."

"Yes. Definitely. We had quite a few 'discussions' about it. But that's not the point. What can I do?"

"Nothing."

"Okay, if there is anything, tell me. You want me to give you a ride home?"

"No," Sherlock's face showed stubborn determination but Greg was painfully aware that leaving was probably the thing Sherlock wanted the most.

"I want to see the footage."

"Security is working on it. Let's go get a coffee. It'll take a while to prepare a copy of all the footage. We'll take it to Scotland Yard for analysing. If we manage to get a good picture from it I'll make Donovan go through the whole bloody hospital and show the still to every single member of staff."

Sherlock continued up the stairs and felt the other man's observing eyes on him but didn't comment.

The DI's welcome, when he had come back to London, had been the kindest and most welcoming; Sherlock was still confused and maybe a bit touched by it.

Lestrade had never hugged him before.

The tight embrace had shown a lot of unspoken things and Lestrade had been so… relieved and honestly glad to see him.

The types of relationships combined under the name of _friendship_ were all so different. They all had this one word to describe them, but it seemed he needed a word for every single type of friendship he had endured the past two years for.

Language was so very imprecise.

They had a cup of coffee in the cafeteria, but no matter how nice and offering Lestrade was, Sherlock was close lipped and not eager for social interaction right now. He even waited patiently for Lestrade to talk to security and finally they headed to the yard with the footage.

The analysis in the video lab brought no real new insights.

The attacker was visible on the tape leaving the hospital room, but he had managed to keep his face out of the camera's view. The same was true about his arrival. He had only spent seconds in the room. They couldn't find out how he had arrived at the hospital or even the floor, and also not how he had left.

Donovan would have no luck showing the stills the technician made around.

Sherlock watched the few glimpses of him they had over and over again. The technician left after the third insult with Lestrade's permission.

The DI left Sherlock another twenty minutes of silent back and forth, watching every detail, zooming in here and there. In the door he asked Sherlock to call him in his bureau when he was finished.

Sherlock worked through the material, glad he was finally undisturbed.

Hiding his distress was getting harder by the minute and took so much concentration, which he instead needed to do a proper breakdown of the sequence.

Another hour later he was sure the man on the tape seemed slightly taller than the one John and he had met in the staircase. Sherlock was quite sure now it was not the same man. His movements were much more snappy than the ones he remembered from the hallway meeting.

He called Lestrade, who reappeared within two minutes.

"No evidence found on the scene," Lestrade muttered while he sat down next to Sherlock again.

"It was not the same men, chances are high this was an amateur or semi-professional hit man, or someone who has served in the military. He was too fast and the fact that he left almost no evidence… obviously, he wasn't doing such a thing for the first time."

"Okay, " Lestrade rubbed his face.

 

Sherlock arrived back at Baker Street in the late afternoon.

The smell of baking greeted him right behind the front door.

Mrs Hudson was busy, apparently.

He took a moment to actually listen to his body's needs but the only reaction to the smell of food was one of rejection.

It didn't smell particularly good or bad, it was just a smell.

His transport seemed to be still lingering in a slight nauseous mode. He felt the urge to push this embarrassing perception away.

Smell…

The _smell of blood_ was not _supposed_ to make him feel bad. It was just a smell.

A smell he was confronted on a daily basis in his line of work, so the last thing he needed was freaking out with its presence.

He needed it to stop it, the odd reactions of his body to things that reminded him of what had happened during the hiatus.

He wanted _control_ back.

He _needed_ it back.

Repulsion.

He felt weak and useless like this.

This was not a form of existence he'd be able to endure long.

Angry with himself and ashamed of the ugly sensations his transport threw at him, he decided he needed to tame it with his will.

Why wasn't it working?

He had tried - was still trying.

Taming, it should work.

Willing the memories away should be a good coping mechanism, but when he was honest, and he always was…

It _wasn't_ working.

He was a mess.

He was weak and freaking out.

It was a hateful state - weary of his own mind and body.

He had been here before, but it hadn't been like this. This time it was more profound than before. This time it included John.

Before… he had hated himself to a point where he had almost killed himself with an overdose… but it was long before he had met John… and hopefully Mycroft was the only person who remembered those events.

This time he felt like the persons who mattered would be better without him. John would have a better life with his wife and maybe offsprings without his pitiful presence.

John was important, John's needs were important.

Sherlock dragged himself up the stairs.

He felt tired.

Disgusted and sick of himself.

But John would not tolerate him getting away again or finally.

He couldn't do that to John. So he was doomed to exist through this fully conscious. Because John wouldn't allow him to take something to take the edge off existence. He'd love to get some… no, not an option.

Taking things would hurt John… He had endured the past two years for him; he'd make it through this, too.

But he _needed_ something that would work - figure something out to cope with this.

Maybe he should expose himself all day long to the smell of blood to get the neutrality of the smell back.

Blunted affect.

Would animal blood suffice or would he have to ask Molly for a few litres?

The pure memory of the smell of his own blood made the nausea rise again.

The door to the flat was slightly open.

Maybe he should expose himself to the smell of his _own_ blood. He'd need an anticoagulant… and a blood donation kit for this. He set a mental reminder to get one later.

He entered the living room, realising to late he wasn't alone.

"Oh, Sherlock, there you are. I just finished making some pastries," Mrs Hudson informed him. Obviously she had baked in their oven. He hoped she had cleaned it before, but it was _her_ , of course she would've done that.

He entered the kitchen, still in his coat, the smell of fresh baked goods warm and heavy in the air. His stomach was not really happy about it.

"Why didn't you bake downstairs?" he asked, tension about the unfamiliar scent clear in his voice but Mrs Hudson had long learned to ignore this kind of rudeness.

"Oh, there's a second load in the downstairs oven, I thought I might clean your oven and use the chance that it's clean. It's not that long to Christmas now and I thought John and Mary would like to eat some fresh cookies.

"Hm," Sherlock broadcasted his displeasure. She took a baking tin out of the oven and put one with unbaked cookies into it in instead.

"When will they be home, dear?"

"John's shift is over at 17:00, he'll probably arrive here at around 18:00."

Right now it was still a rest of light outside. Sherlock opened all windows in the flat and vanished into his room, closing the door firmly.

Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes and closed them all again.

 

"John, come on," Sherlock had fetched his coat as soon as John had entered the flat.

"What? I just came home."

"We need to go to the hospital."

"What, why?" John had hung up his jacket.

"Lestrade just texted and informed me that the victim…"

"Sandra Hermann! Her name is Sandra Hermann."

"Yes. She is lucid since half an hour and asked to be interviewed today. We'll meet Lestrade there in half an hour."

Mary crossed the room and kissed John, "Don't let me stop you. Go, if you want to."

"I…" John was not sure what to do. On one hand he knew he wanted to go, on the other hand the shift had been really exhausting. Too much flu cases, they had closed the surgery two hours later than normal and it was almost 19:30 now.

The flat smelled like fresh baking and it was accentuating his hunger even more, he so needed a meal.

But he had also the feeling to accompany Sherlock would be important, too. They hadn't done anything concerning the case together since the chase.

Additionally, John hadn't liked the fact that he couldn't accompany Sherlock for the interview in the morning.

"Wait, you were supposed to interview her this morning, why didn't you?"

"We found her stabbed in her bed and she was taken so surgery. Obviously, she survived and is awake."

"Blimey… Okay… but I won't drive," John took the jacket of the hook again and slipped it on once more. The doctor decided to hide his tiredness and followed Sherlock, who was already halfway down the stairs.

Mary stepped in his way when he passed the kitchen door that led to the stairway and held out her hand. John needed a moment to realise she held out three pastries in a serviette and smiled at her.

Chewing, he followed Sherlock down the stairs and through the open front door.

Five minutes later they sat in a cab but Sherlock didn't care to share the things that had happened. John needed to ask twice to find out what had happened. And even then Sherlock was close lipped and in the end he only had a vague understanding of the events.

 

Another fifteen minutes later they walked down the corridor of the ward. Lestrade was talking to the doctor again. When Sherlock and John approached them he greeted him goodbye and turned into their direction.

"Hi, John," Greg greeted, "Nice you could come, too."

John realised the tired gaze he gave him held more than just a greeting.

There was an urgency and…?

What was going on?

"Same room?" Sherlock asked and when Lestrade nodded hurried down the corridor.

"Sherlock, slow and with sympathy please. She almost died - _again -_ today… And was probably re-traumatised. And it is her explicit wish to speak to us. The doctors suggested to wait 'til tomorrow night. So we're here because of her doing. Treat her like a human being please, she went through a lot," Lestrade warned while they neared the door, which was guarded by a policeman now.

"Fine," Sherlock sounded unnerved but knocked politely when he reached the door and even waited a moment before entering.

 


	43. Monday night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.
> 
> There are some descriptions of the victim's ordeal in here. Nothing sexual but it's about being drugged and paralysed and helpless.   
> Not too graphic, but she describes her feelings.   
> Don't read if this might trigger your.

 

 

Greg and John followed Sherlock into the dimly lit hospital room. A very pale and exhausted Sandra Hermann was limply in her bed with her head slightly elevated. She had a friend sitting nearby, they both greeted the group politely and Sherlock seemed to have decided to keep his mouth shut.

Lestrade realised he was the one who was supposed to do the talking; quite surprised he introduced them and carefully started asking the questions.

Mrs Hermann answered with a voice that was still hoarse from anaesthesia but her mind was clear and eager to impart what she had to say. She started describing her ordeal after John and Greg had sat down, Sherlock refused to take a chair.

She explained how she had come home from work and then went to get the shopping done. On her way home she had felt as if someone was watching her but whenever she had turned around no one was there.

She had had the feeling for days but always thought she was imagining it. She described how glad she had been to arrive in the safety of her home, only to be grabbed from behind when she was sorting the groceries into the fridge.

The attacker had held her so tight she could barely breathe and threatened to stab her in the heart if she tried to fight him.

"He made me lie on the sofa and then pinioned and blindfolded me. At that point I was hoping he'd just rob me and leave, but he injected me with a drug and I passed out only moments later… When I came to I was dressed differently… but in my own clothes and in a relaxed pose on the sofa, but I couldn't move. He was… he was moving around my flat as if he had lived there for years… and… and as if we had known each other for years… He talked to me as if we were friends or… I don't know, it was really odd," she explained in a low voice.

"…as if you were lovers?" Lestrade asked carefully.

"No. He was really freaky and did a lot of bad things, but he never behaved in a way that was even remotely sexual."

John saw she was even paler now and tried to soothe her.

"You are really tough to talk about this in such a disciplined manner, you're doing great."

Behind him he heard Sherlock huff, displeased, and wondered briefly about what. She was talking fast and not really emotional, at least not until now.

So what was the problem?

"It was really odd, you know. He behaved as if I was a good friend, talked to me, entertained me, watched TV with me… but he repeatedly drugged me through an IV and…"

"Did he handle things as if he was a medical professional?… I mean, was he doing that with the ease of a person who had done it a hundred times?" John asked.

"Hm…. Not really. I mean he had practice, but I had a lot of bruises around the puncture sites and it hurt when he missed. He tried again and again, but the day before you found me… Many many thanks… thanks for saving me… I was so glad I… I almost lost it when you came in because I thought it was him, coming back, and I could feel he was different that night…. And I feared I was going mad after so many days and…"

Now John saw tears in her eyes, but her voice stayed firm.

Her friend stroked her upper arm briefly to encourage her.

"The day before you found me he removed the IV and I… he started injecting me on very odd places with higher doses and I wasn't allowed to have short breaks from the drug any longer - I was before, you know. To go to the bathroom and wash and have something to eat when it had worn of. He usually waited for the drug to wear off and I was allowed to do all those things but then he… he used places like between my toes or at my ankle to inject me and I slept more than before… it felt horrible, being paralysed was really really dreadful and…" Now her voice faltered from the emotions and she pressed a hand over her mouth.

"If you need a break we can wait outside," Lestrade offered.

"No," she murmured and her friend stood up and hugged her. They talked briefly in a low voices, obviously the other woman had not heard about what had happened in detail and was quite shocked.

"He was a bit of a freak. Extremely neat but very peculiar… and he did loads of things in odd ways. He always ate that extremely cheap pizza in all variations but not with seafood… and he smelled like my grandfather's aftershave. I think… he had aspects of a child in his behaviour but also those of an older man. He was incalculable, mean… and he threatened me… I think he liked to have the power over me, but also to take care of me."

"How did he take care?" Lestrade asked.

"I… He…" she gulped, "I had an accident when he told me he'd give me another dose of the drug… it was when the first dose had worn off and I already had a panic attack from not being able to move after waking up… and feeling vulnerable when I realised I was paralysed and in his power and feared that he'd rape me or… and… I had another one then and struggled and when he held me down… I… I…"

She choked on her own words.

"I… It was the most humiliating thing in my life… I had an accident… It resulted in wet underwear."

"Oh," Lestrade just said, empathy in his voice.

"Don't be ashamed, it's not an uncommon reaction in situations of extreme fear, might have even been caused by the drug cocktail he gave you," John explained in a calm voice, but frowned when he heard Sherlock's breathing speed up behind him, Sherlock also became a bit unsettled and moved around a bit agitated.

"I'm so very ashamed," she admitted.

"How did he react?" Greg wanted to know.

"He cleaned me up as if it was the most normal thing in the world."

"What did he look like? Did he wear hoodie sweaters, baseball caps or trainers?" Greg changed topics to spare her more embarrassment.

"Yes, he did. All of that. You saw him, didn't you?" she addressed Sherlock and John.

"Yes," John answered, "But we didn't know for sure it was him."

John waited for Sherlock to jump in but he was not saying a word.

"We followed him, but he got away. We are very sorry."

"I'm so glad you found me… I'm not sure I'd have survived enduring that any longer. I was going mad with the fear and the deadly terror. Whenever he left I tried to get free desperately. He found my damaged wrists after the first day he was gone and… he bandaged it, took care of it, treated it with ointment… but he heightened the dose so I wouldn't do it again."

"How often was he away?"

"Almost daily… I thought he might have a part time job or something. I really can't say. He darkened the windows and I never knew if it was night or day and how long it had went on. He removed the clocks from the living room."

She also explained that he had been done a daily routing in her flat. Though she never heard the shower or anything. Expect the little drug-pauses, where she had been weak and allowed a bathroom break, on her own. And the perpetrator had used her tablet and her PC, wrote fake messages and facebook entries so that no one would miss her.

"Can we have access to your accounts so we can see what he wrote?"

"Sure."

Lestrade held out a notepad and with shaky fingers she wrote down the logins and other data.

"Ta. Can I send over an artist to do a sketch of him? Dr Watson and Mr Holmes already helped us make one, but they only briefly saw him and we'd like to have another from you."

"Yes, but …" she gulped, "Maybe tomorrow?"

"Of course, I'll send over one of my detectives in the early afternoon, "How did he spend the rest of the time with you?"

"I… to be honest I was so afraid all the time I… He watched TV, played with my play station, went shopping… I don't know… I was so afraid. And I lost time… the drugs made me sleep for long periods of time."

Her voice became more hoarse by the minute.

"Can you remember where you spent the first days right after your abduction?"

"First days?"

"Shortly after you were taken we searched your flat, because we were monitoring missing person cases for new victims. You weren't here."

"Oh god, days? There were other victims? You knew he was out there?"

New tears accumulated in her eyes and she silently sobbed once. Her friend now sat on the bed to comfort her.

"Why didn't… No one saw anything? Why didn't anybody realise?… How…?"

She started crying in earnest now.

John could feel Sherlock's uneasiness behind him when she described what had happened to her in detail but now he was getting more and more nervous.

"Why did no one… help me?"

"We tried, and we were looking for you. Several other women were missing, too and we had all the flats under surveillance but he was nasty - as if he knew - and he made sure no one would smell a rat. But those two men spent two nights watching your flat and it was Mr Holmes' good eyesight and attention that made him finally make the first move when he saw something suspicious… We're very sure he didn't assault you sexually while you were out, if that is your concern right now. The doctors were sure nothing like that happened," Lestrade assured her.

"So you remember nothing of that first few days? In case something might come back, please let us know. One last question for today: Did he wear gloves or took his time to do the cleaning?" Greg continued.

"Yes, yes, as I said, he was very neat and cleaned up everything, even touch marks on the furniture. He only touched me with the gloves…"

She turned away and sobbed into her friend's shoulder and murmured "I'll be tortured by the memories of this for the rest of my life, why did he do that?"

"We don't know, but we plan to find out," John assured her.

"I think this is enough for today, we'll come back tomorrow," Lestrade stood up and also promised her that they'd do the best they could to catch him.

John did the same and finally turned around to Sherlock to look at him without ostentation. The tall man was still standing behind him, leaned against the edge of a table, looking pale and exhausted… and absent.

"Sherlock, let's go," John encouraged him and like in trance Sherlock straightened up and left the room without further greeting, which the young woman would have missed anyway because she was being hugged and rocked by her friend who nodded kindly and grateful at John and Greg when they left.

 

Lestrade closed the door silently behind them and turned towards John. Sherlock was already heading down the corridor.

"How is he?"

"Honestly… I don't know. Had just come home when he dragged me off to get here. Got a brief explanation that she was stabbed and you tried to get a screenshot but… it was really superficial."

"He was alone in the stairwell for a bit while I had the hospital locked down and didn't came out until I went after him. He didn't look good, really bad in fact. I tried to help but he… pushed me away."

"Did he have a panic attack?"

"Possible, but I don't really know."

"So you don't know what might have caused any stress?"

"No. It was all… I don't know, happened so fast."

"I'll try to find out what agitated him. Is he welcome to come with you tomorrow, too?"

"Sure. I'll text him and ask him to come."

"Good. Thank you, mate."

"Now get after him. Call me when you have a moment."

"Yeah, thanks Greg," the doctor hurried after Sherlock.

 

They arrived home half an hour later after a drive through the evening rush hour.

John had eyed Sherlock carefully who was silent and pale. The doctor needed something to eat and would then find out what had happened today. The detective had told him briefly about the case and of course left out personal things.

"Hey boys, fancy some dinner?" Mary greeted John with a kiss when they entered the kitchen.

"You cooked?"

"No. Mrs Hudson did. She said she wanted to use the heated oven and put in a casserole after she was done with the pastries and cookies."

"Oh, great. I'm starving," John was already peeking into the oven when Sherlock entered the kitchen after him. The detective's facial expression clearly showed he'd have preferred a neutral smelling kitchen. Now the remnant cookie smell mixed with the smell of the baking cheese and chicken.

Sherlock yanked open the windows, he felt obviously assaulted by the odours and headed directly into his room, closing the door.

"What happened, is he angry?"

"No. Probably tired and unnerved and hasn't eaten - and had a bad day… and the perpetrator escaped him again… and now his snug smells of things his stomach is not ready for… and he's quite unnerved with the world. I haven't found out what really happened but before I do, I need something to eat. He needs time to cool down anyway."

"That bad, huh?"

"You have no idea. Something happened but I haven't managed to find out what."

"Okay, it'll be finished in five minutes, let's get some plates. I have a date with Janine for a movie. She'll pick me up in forty-five minutes. Plenty time for you to solve that riddle then."

Mary closed the windows again and stopped in front of John, hugging him.

"Oh, great. I think I'll drag his arse into his mind palace," John mumbled into her hair while kissing her once more.

They ate the delicious bake made with chicken and broccoli. Although they had once decided not to talk over cases from the surgery at dinner or while watching a film they stumbled into it again. The idea wasn't working really well for them.

After the meal, Mary prepared for the evening out and John followed her downstairs to see her off. On his way back he thank Mrs Hudson for the delicious dinner.

The landlady handed him a plate with pastries and cookies. And while they were at it he took the chance to ask her if there had been any odd happenings today - which she negated - so the doctor thanked her at least five more times for the delicious meal. He then headed back up the flat.

He re-opened the windows and did his best to get the cooking smells out of the rooms.

After he had a shower he felt it was neutral enough to make a try to get Sherlock to talk.

He knocked at the other man's door.

 


	44. Monday night - The mind palace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

John knocked at Sherlock's door again but didn't get an answer, though he heard Sherlock moving inside.

"Alright, I'm coming in, then," he informed the other man.

Carefully, he opened the door, peering in.

Sherlock was sitting on his bed, phone in hand, looking up at him with dark shadowed and tired eyes, he looked haunted.

"Hey," the doctor greeted, trying to sound enthusiastic. The question how Sherlock was doing would only cause frustration, so he didn't ask. He saw enough with his own eyes anyway.

The pile of blankets was still on the ground.

John entered and sat down on them and to his surprise felt they were warm, which meant Sherlock had sat there moments ago and only moved to the bed when he had knocked. He looked up at the detective and it was clear he was aware John knew where he had been.

Maybe that was why he didn't meet John's eyes.

"Smells bothering you?… I aired the flat."

"Good."

"Stomach bothering you, too?"

Sherlock frowned and finally looked at him.

"Tattered with Lestrade?" he spit in a low voice.

"We do not tatter. We are _worried_."  
"I'm sick of hearing the word 'worried'."

"I know… But you could help minimise it's use with a bit of trust, you know, telling us what's going on. That would reduce worrying and therefore the use of the word."

"Oh, God! I'm sick of telling and talking and…"

"Sherlock, you're not mad at us for caring. You're mad at yourself for feeling under the weather and not being able to hide it better… and I bet you think you're not functioning properly, and you're mad about that, too… I know."

"Stop that psycho-BS, I'm not in the mood."

From John's point of view, using such words underlined the statement he had just made.

"Er… Right, then. Let's get to the mind palace. I think the faster we fix it the faster you'll succeed in solving the case."

"I'm not in the mood."

"Yes, you are," John insisted.

"I am not!"

"You want it working. I want it working. We'll go there and work on make it working," John tried to lighten the situation.

"Not now, I'm busy. Your tendency to play with words today is not welcome."

"Sherlock, the opening-up-to-me-thing we discussed before…" John started.

"The excessive use of the word 'work' seems to have tired me beyond…" Sherlock said simultaneously, exaggerating the sharp sounds of the words.

"Well, then you have no steam left to resist and must surrender and do as I ask," John grinned, trying humour once more.

He stood up, then sat on the edge of the bed next to his former flatmate, to look at Sherlock's screen.

"What the hell are you doing?" Sherlock exploded.

"I'm sitting on the bed."

"Get off!" Sherlock's tone had changed drastically, pissed and agitated now.

The detective jumped off the bed and reached for John's upper arm and literally dragged him off the bed.

"Shit!"

John was taken so much off guard he followed his movements.

"What's bloody wrong with you today?"

Sherlock normally wouldn't be this territorial with his room or his stuff, not even with his bed.

Privacy was nothing he particularly needed or cared about, at least not like this.

The doctor tried to use the fact that the other man was off the bed and collected several pillows from it to throw them onto the nest on the ground.

Sherlock seemed to like it there and if the bed was off limits then John would use the nest for what he planned.

"Sit. We're doing this, now!" John made it sound like an order, and not a subtle one, he thrust the last pillow into Sherlock's arms.

Perplexed, the consultant clutched it to his chest was then pulled down by John, who had just sat on another one. With a slightly sulky expression he sat where he stood and stared ahead, waiting for John to speak.

"You know I'm not doing this to cause you trouble, I'm doing this to help you."

The detective said nothing.

"Okay, sit comfy."

Sherlock sat cross-legged and his posture screamed tension.

The doctor therefore abandoned the idea to ask his friend about what had happened today and decided to get them concentrated to get this going as fast as he could.

"Well, let's do this a little different than last time… The room where we found that strand beast model last time. Is there more? I mean is it a room for your former science projects? Or for technical wonders, or what?"

"Oh, please! Get the small talk over with. I'm not…" Sherlock started in an uneasy tone.

"Sorry, I thought I could…"

"Obviously, but it's doing the opposite."

"I haven't even begun," the doctor explained.

"Stop the nonsense."

"I just wanted to do this nice and comfortable."

"There is no _nice_ … Either way, it won't be comfortable and you only prolong the bad experience this way."

"Right…" John was a bit lost for words, especially since the other man's expression was dead and mask-like.

"Lie back," John instructed, putting several pillows behind Sherlock.

"No. Just elaborate where we need to go and get it over with," the detective insisted.

"Where do you think we need to go?… What's bothering you the most?"

"Being unable to use the knowledge of the palace without risking things to get ugly. I need access to my databases, to knowledge."

"So our first priority should be to make the palace a safe place again."

"The existence of safeness is an illusion."

"Yeah, been there, too" John was sighting inwardly.

This was not a good start, not good at all.

"Stop pushing me away."

"I'm not."

"Then stop objecting."

Sherlock just huffed in a sarcastic way to that.

"Close your eyes."

To John's great relieve the detective did.

"You told me before there are large areas more or less unusable by fire and others where you can't enter at all."

"Yes…" Sherlock hesitated.

"You feel up to going there and getting another look at the problems?"

"I don't feel up to it, but I know I'm capable of doing that," Sherlock opened his eyes wide in something close to anger.

"Don't speak, just do it, _please_ …"

The resistance Sherlock was giving him today was quite alarming - but not unexpected.

"Shut up and trust me," John begged in a gentle voice.

He must have sounded more desperate than he thought because Sherlock dropped his gaze to the floor and kept his silence.

This was also not what John had expected.

He sighed.

The next moment Sherlock turned away from him and rolled into a ball on the blankets, in his sofa-sulking-position.

"Okay, then. Is there a fire on a level we have already been to? Are there multiple fires?"

"Yes."

"Then let's go… to where you remember a fire was last time you came by."

"There's one on one of the old school levels."

"And that particular level is home to which kind of memories?"

"I built it in my early teens. I don't like that floor. I don't really want to go there."

"See it this way. Let's try there first. If we can't manage it's better than harming a level you like."

"Eurgh," Sherlock made, "Information is non-judgemental. It just is."

"Then why bothering to inform me that you don't like it there?"

"That's different."

"Really? Come on, just go there and tell me what it looks like."

"Dusty public school, hundred years without changes… Smells timeworn."

"Er, why don't you remove the smell? It's your mind."

"Isn't working," Sherlock grunted into the fabrics surrounding him.

"Are you there, yet?"

"Yes," Sherlock's voice had changed to small and soft now, but his posture seemed to be even more tense than before.

"Let's get closer to the smouldering areas… Describe the corridor for me."

"It's dark and with all those typical dark wooden ornamented window- and doorframes, wall panels, stained glass windows, dirty and letting in no light. Peeling paint is scattered on the floor… The…"

"Wait a second, did this level always look like this or has it changed recently?"

"It always looked abandoned and dusty, but it seems to have worsened."

"You made it like this?"

"No… I made it looking antique and… The fire is slowly eating at a wall on the right side of the corridor, rooms are on the left. The area ahead seems to be blackened and destroyed. The glow of the fire is… a source of light in the distance…"

"Hang on… just stand there for a moment."

Had Sherlock moved forward fast to get away from the other topic?

"How about we first light the area properly so you can see?"

"Fine… I put on some heavy duty construction site lights… Em,…That's… that's not right." Sherlock seemed to hesitate or observe something.

"What's going on? Can you see better now? Can you see to through to the other undamaged side of the corridor?"

"No… The black area is still black and the corridor vanishes into the dark. I'll carry the light in manually."

"Do you know what causes this effect?"

"I… The last time I was here was when I tried to escape to my mind palace during… when I was in the Serbian cellar and wanted to get away for a bit. Probably something connected to that incident."

"You don't need to make it sound like a holiday for me, just tell me."

" _Needed to escape reality for a bit_ then… I tried to reach another level, but somehow arrived here by accident. The process of entering the palace was a struggle. I was wrenched out of virtuality repeatedly by my _host_ , who was trying to hinder me switching reality off. I assumed it was against his ideas of making me suffer."

Sherlock's voice was monotone, but the sarcasm the words carried made John flinch.

"He dragged me back to the present again and again. The procedure was not pleasant."

"So, the damage might be caused by his tries to drag you back and you trying to stay?"

"Where do you get that idea?" Sherlock seemed irritated.

"Sounds logical. It's like an opening, caused by one force trying to get inside something, but another force is trying to keep it out… Back and forth movement causing fraction?"

"He tried to follow me…" Sherlock's voice changed to agitated now.

"What?"

That statement and it's tone actually made John suck in air.

The fact itself sounded bizarre and the doctor failed to understand the hidden mental equation.

" _Did_ he get in?"

Sherlock didn't answer and John stared at his back, wishing he could see his friend's face. He closed in a bit.

"Sorry, just assess the damage for now. No analysing, yet, just find out what it looks like…" Sherlock didn't react.

"Can you carefully move passed the burning areas?" John tried.

Sherlock held his breath.

"What's happening?"

"Hot… it's hot… and dark. The light is swallowed by the blackness, it's like it can only illuminate twenty centimetres of air, I can't even see my feet…"

"How deep are you in?"

"Maybe ten… steps…"

John heard Sherlock's voice was balking from the virtual heat.

"Do you think you can get through?"

"I will try!"

Sherlock's motivations seemed to be stubbornness, not the honest wish to reach the other side. It sounded as if his teeth were clenched together.

The next moment he hissed angrily.

"What…?" John frowned.

"I dropped the light, fell over some debris… The ground is hot, I… the debris is hot… I burned my fingers… I'll try to find a way to get over the joist and chunks… they are not all hot…. The heat is glimmering in the distance. It's moving away from me when I try to approach."

John realised Sherlock would hurt himself with his stubbornness, just trying to prove that he could make it through.

Time to intervene.

"Sherlock, this might be a bad idea… Be safe, let's take a look at it from the other side. There is a staircase as well, right?"

"I _will_ get through this!"

Sherlock had started to pant and now was also starting to tremble.

"No, wait! Come back to me, get out of there, you're hurting yourself."

"I don't understand. I need to hurt myself to heal, that's what you said."

"What? No!"

"Yes. In order to get passed my problems - to solve them - I need to endure the healing, endure the time it takes and all that is hurting me. Why am I not supposed to do it then with this? Makes no sense. Shut up."

It dawned to John that Sherlock was not able to make the difference between getting through the agony of healing and the agony of unnecessary self inflicted cruelty…

Yeah, which of those was this?

To John it looked like auto-aggression, but now he wasn't sure any longer.

Could Sherlock be right and this _was_ a healing process?

Or was he just not able to distinguish between the two?

To be reassured of the own powers and abilities might be a good thing, to prove he could weather this?

Double edged thing.

So the doctor waited, and shifted into a position from which he finally was able to see the other man's face, at least partially.

Sherlock's breathing was laborious and getting worse.

 

 


	45. Monday night - The mind palace 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mind Palace Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

Sherlock's breathing was laborious and getting worse.

Then he was coughing and John was amazed - and also a bit horrified - how the mind palace's reality was affecting Sherlock's body.

When the other man started to struggle for breath some minutes later John decided to finally intermit.

He touched him and slowly shook his shoulder.

"Sherlock, get out… come on. No use to hurt yourself… come back."

Sherlock blinked, eyes wild and red, then jerked away from the touch, anger in his eyes.

He was sitting upright now, next to John, who had raised his hands slightly in a surrendering gesture.

"Where's the use of doing this when you pull me out and disturb me like this? Why do you start this only to hinder me when I finally do it?" he griped.

"I'm keeping you safe, I'm not hindering you! There are risks and hurts that are needed to pass through, but there are others that aren't. You need to distinguish between those! This is _not_ good. Why don't you see that?" John answered in frustration, ruefully biting his lips the next moment.

He shouldn't react like this, it was impatient and unpedagogical.

"Oh, for God's sake!" Sherlock hissed, "How am I able to know what is too much for my body and what would help healing? All the _normal_ suggestions don't work for me, too subtle or too intense, or nonsense. How am I supposed to know when I'm too aggressive and when I'm right? I both feels the same: bad."

John decided to carefully address the issue now that they were here.

"Your body should tell you. You should just know. Observe."

"But it doesn't and I don't. And don't tell me I'm just not listening, because I can observe all I want, I won't find something that isn't there. Of course I could do it like in my youth when I faked having sensed something, just to get you off my back, but that intercedes with the rule 'don't lie to John'… and…"

This actually made John speechless. There were more important facts revealed in those brief sentences than in hours of talking.

Sherlock had had this problem before. Someone had scolded him for not being good to his body and so often he invented a coping mechanism by concocting false information - and he had made a rule that said 'No lying to John!'

"All right. That's good to know. I didn't realise that. I'm sorry," John remembered they had actually discussed something similar to this but it was years ago and they needed to go back to the palace for now.

"Thank you for that rule… Let's see how the corridor looks from the other side."

With a resigned frown Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned back into the pillows.

John relaxed, his friend hadn't turned away, neither run away and nor shoved him away.

"I changed position to the other side of the corridor," Sherlock started to report. "The blackened area seems to affect almost a third of the corridor. Length: about seventy metres. I can't see through from here either, and I can't see the lamps that I left when you called me back."

"Okay, let's set a marker to make sure we can determine if it expands and how fast."

"Done."

"What? How?"

"Red chalk marks on the ground. Several. Numbered. A metre in between."

"Both sides?"

"Give me a minute…" Sherlock seemed to concentrate, "…both sides."

"Okay. Can you make one more try to extinguish those smouldering walls… I know you told me you tried and it didn't work, but I want you to use a professional fire extinguisher and tell me exactly what happens. Just humour me."

"CO2 or foam?"

"Try both."

Sherlock coughed roughly and after about three minutes finally reported the results.

"CO2: Nothing happens… Foam: evaporates, which is totally not how it is supposed to act. The smell is overwhelming and poisoning the air."

"Good. Back off. Nothing changed then to the last time you tried, right?"

"Right," Sherlock said in a told-you kind of voice.

"Is there another smouldering or burning area?"

"Yes, two other levels. Same problems. We don't need to inspect it, the areas are approximately thirty and twenty eight metres long. One is on your level and the other one on a level I built shortly after the fall. But… there's an area with bomb damage, just a lot of debris blocking almost an entire level."

"Which one is it?"

John's mind was currently struggling with the fact that he had apparently his own level and that there was damage there, too. He was also wondering how 'his' level might look like.

"Early cases and information about… several industrial manufacturing processes."

"Like?"

"I don't know, the index is not accessible, too… the fist door says… food engineering."

"Oh,… Is it as dark as the other levels?"

John tried to return his focus on what was said.

"No. The floor is well illuminated… has a clinical design. You'd probably be reminded of Baskerville, bright and everything white and clean and… what is odd though is that the debris looks like from a really old house… like in the wartime pictures you see from WW2 or when an old house is demolished. It should look like metal and plastic, modern building materials… it's odd…" Sherlock sniffed and seemed to inspect the debris closely. "It also… smells like built with old materials… mortar and straw… it…"

Sherlock suddenly jerked violently.

And John was so surprised by the actual physical movement he sucked in air, too.

"What is it?"

Sherlock held his breath.

"Something moved."

"The rubble?"

"No… something with an organic… eh, well, living movement pattern… a shadow, silently…"

"Where?… Inside the rubble?"

"No… Behind me… Where there's no damage at all," Sherlock huffed, stiff like a board, barely daring to breathe.

"Get out of there."

"No!…" Sherlock resisted.

He seemed to hold his breath again.

A few moments later he panted, "I can't see anything. No one there… Nothing… I'll check the adjacent rooms."

John waited, in a taut posture, he realised.

"Nothing, it's all… normal," the detective reported some long minutes later and John saw him relaxing.

"Alright. Sherlock, how did you built those levels? I mean is it a lot of work? Could you try to build a new level and then transfer the memories there somehow?… demolish this one."

The picture of a broken down building had probably produced that idea.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I can build a new level, but transferring the memories won't really work… or maybe… maybe it would if I could built the new level exactly like the old one, but therefore I'd need to enter the old level, which is kind of… the problem."

"Why can't you just transfer them?"

"It's kind of against the principles of how this thing works. You store memories in structures you know very well, in order not to dislocate them and find them fast… if you move them…. It might get messed up… But I can try… If clearing the problems out fails I probably have no option left but to try. Thing is, I will probably move the problem, too, therefore pointless," Sherlock grunted.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm cleaning out the rubble."

"Now?"

"Yes. As you said, the sooner I do this, the better for the current case… this is paralysing the palace. I can't function like this."

"What happened today that is frustrating you so much?" John asked carefully.

"Nothing. I _am_ quite exhausted."

"Now you stop that nonsense. Honestly! What?"

"I got distracted by a smell," Sherlock finally explained when John had almost given up the hope to get an answer.

"And?"

That couldn't be all.

"…and lost the perpetrator."

"Because of the smell or your reaction to it?"

"Neither."

"What was so bad then?"

"I failed - again - and I reacted inappropriately… weak. I do _not_ like to feel like that."

"Tell me what you felt."

"No. I'm gonna clean out the rubble."

"Are you trying to work off your anger?" John tried to provoke carefully, approaching the subject from another angle.

"Of course, why else would I do it now?" Sherlock stymied him with his honesty towards himself. The mixture of Sherlock's self-evaluation was a stark contrast, on one hand he was brutally honest and evading nothing, having considered every aspect of his behaviour and mistakes, and the needed changes, on the other he totally failed to discern anything on other, rather large areas of topics.

"Well, I suppose… it's a good idea."

"Get a book or something… or go to bed."

"Are you throwing me out of the palace?"

"I'm saying there is no point. You'll be bored and I'm not in the mood to describe every shovel of dirt I'm about to move."

"Right, then… Er… I'll get a book," John stood up and hurried to fetch two cups of tea, a bottle of water, another blanket and his current book.

When he came back to Sherlock's room, the other man was deep into whatever he was doing. His expression showed concentration and mental movement.

John sat down and made himself comfortable. This could become a long night. He started reading.

When he turned pages he eyed Sherlock carefully, but except that he was concentrated at work there was nothing odd.

.

Over one and a half hours later John realised he had dozed off. He forced his eyes open and saw Sherlock twitching and even sweating.

"Sherlock, how are you doing?"

"Fine…" came the soft reply, Sherlock wasn't panting but his breathing was a bit off.

"What did you do?"

"Removed a few metres of rubble and cleared the way to several doors."

"Is it working?"

"I would've stopped if it wasn't."

"Good."

John tried to stay awake but slipped into sleep again after a few minutes.

.

It felt like hours later when he jerked awake.

Sherlock was curled into a ball next to him. A lot closer than he had been the last time John checked on him. His breathing was fast and he seemed uneasy.

He gently put his hand on the other man's shoulder, shifting to see his hidden face, but it was covered in locks and fabric from Sherlock's dressing gown.

"You okay?"

Sherlock just nodded.

"What happened?"

"Can't go on."

"Why not, did something happen? What did you see?"

"Nothing, just debris and debris and rubble and dust and… I can't stand up."

"You don't have to… Wait, in the palace or in RL?"

Had he collapsed in the palace?

"Palace… I can't…" Sherlock sounded utterly exhausted, unsurprisingly.

John assumed the man had not slept in ages and barely eaten. He felt his pulse, slow and soft. Sherlock didn't react, this seemed to become a ritual.

"Sherlock… Sleep… Just sleep. It's gonna be okay… come on."

It only took about sixty seconds and John felt Sherlock relax abruptly with a soft sight.

The doctor raised his eyebrows.

Sleep was good, working on this was good, the trust John was given was reluctant but nevertheless clearly present. Having accomplished something was good… but something about tonight was preying on the back of John's mind.

 

 


	46. Tuesday - morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

The first thing Sherlock's half asleep mind sensed was the smell that surrounded him - the smell of the 221b and his room.

It mixed with the lingering remnants of his dream.

He fought to wake fully and tried to shove the pictures away as soon as he realised he'd relive his nightmare horrors as soon as he remembered what the dream had been about.

Concentrate on the smell again!

The scent of home...

The pillows smelled like home and a bit like John.

He relished the sensation to be back in 221b for several breaths, being glad that he was _not_ camping in some woods or an abandoned building.

But as soon as he moved, his back reminded him that his body was still healing, more intense in fact than it had been for days now. Maybe sleeping on the ground was just not the best idea. He had missed his room and his bed when he was away, had longed for it.

But he couldn't find rest in his bed at all these days.

The ground was good, the sofa was good, but not the bed.

He was starting to get seriously unnerved by the queerness his unconscious mind harassed him with.

John was no longer in the room, had he gone to work?

What day was it?

Did John work every day now? 

He stumbled into the bathroom and started the water, as soon as it had the right temperature he had a ridiculously hot shower.

His body enjoyed the liquid warmth.

 

Tea was waiting on the kitchen table and it was hot.

Mrs Hudson had been up here… and he hadn't heard… and he couldn't smell her presence. No perfume, nothing.

His senses seemed be messed up.

Were they vanishing?

Would his deducting abilities diminish even further, too?

He'd be completely useless in a few weeks if he continued to deteriorate like this.

Last night he had felt a spark of hope that he'd be able to repair the palace and work on fighting all his problems, but it was all gone this morning.

Why was it gone?

Or had its existence been an illusion he had pursued just to please John?

Hunted the illusion that anything might return to normal in the distant future?

He felt tired again.

Tired of everything.

Exhausted beyond… whatever.

He stood in the living room and its emptiness physically hurt. The bad anthracite hard grey feeling pressed down on him and he felt the urge to scream.

But his mind's urges were getting on his nerves so much he suppressed it, just because he wanted to demonstrate to himself he had the upper hand.

He ignored the tea that smelled delicious because his body needed to understand that it would _not_ get what it wanted if it behaved like this.

A phone beeped somewhere and he turned towards the noise, spotted it and picked it up.

Text message from Lestrade.

_'Ready to go? Will pick you up in 30.'_

 

Half an hour later they were in the DI's car and heading to the hospital.

Lestrade informed him that Donovan was already waiting for them and that an artist had assisted her and the victim to make some sketches.

"The lockdown had no effect. He slipped away and Donovan was quite pissed when I talked her into checking with all the staff if they recognised the man in the stills. The clothes revealed nothing. We didn't even found out how he left the area."

"Maybe he used a service vehicle," Sherlock suggested, "You had them searched, right?"

"Of course. But I assume he just left before we managed to block all entrances. We monitored the building for long hours into the night and the staff was not amused at all to be held that long."

Sherlock though about that, maybe he should ask Mycroft if he could get his hands on additional surveillance material, but decided against it, thought chances were small.

But he was still very displeased with Mycroft's behaviour and the fact that so many things his brother had foreseen had turned out to be right, and that he himself had failed to see them at the time.

John was the most important of his failures.

Of course he knew it was ridiculous to be angry at his sibling for being right, he was in fact more annoyed about himself, but he didn't like to be confronted with it… and Mycroft was a strong reminder.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade brought him back to reality.

"So he is fast, knows the building and all its processes in detail and has routine. We should check the employees and former employees, too," Sherlock continued.

"Questioning the staff on ward brought nothing. I hope we'll have more luck with the composite sketch. How could he do this with leaving this few evidence?"

"It's like before… Quite odd. The evidences left in the flat were so few and so… it's almost as if a forensic technician cleaned after him. Is Anderson accounted for?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade threw Sherlock a frowning look, obviously not sure if it was meant as a joke or not.

"Have you found out anything about the leak to the press?"

"Nothing yet. Media seems to be informed but given nothing concrete. Just general stuff. Though, this will probably interfere profoundly with the investigation… Well, at least people will be more attentive for their friends and family. On the other hand… I'm already sorry for all the new missing persons that will be filed because people are actually overreacting."

Sherlock said nothing to that.

 

When they entered the hospital room, the victim… Sermann... Sermon… Hermann - wasn't that a male first name? Whatever - greeted them with a friendly smile, though her face was red and swollen, looked as if she had cried.

When Lestrade asked how she was doing Sherlock gave an annoyed groan.

Well, at least he was not the only one who was asked this particular dumb and annoying question. 

"Manners, Sherlock," Greg reminded him in a low voice, but the detective had already spotted the drawings that were spread over a table and hurried over. Donovan was taking pictures with her mobile phone and seemed busy sending them.

"Good day to you, too, Sherlock," she said when he stood next to her, eying the sheets of paper closely.

"This is the man who kept you," Sherlock turned around to the young woman, "But it wasn't the same who stabbed you?"

He realised he had interrupted Lestrade talking to the woman but didn't care.

"Last night I couldn't remember what happened, but during the night the memories came back," she explained.

New tears ran down her cheeks and Sherlock felt actually repulsed by her weakness. She was _not_ the only one who had lived through nasty things.

Why didn't she at least manage to hide it as long as they were here?

It was manageable, he was doing it all day… Why was she not working harder on hiding her emotions?… Harassing her surroundings with them was pathetic.

He felt annoyed and troubled by her displayed suffering.

"I… snapshots of what he looked like are coming back, but… I'm sure he… it wasn't the same man. That's why I didn't react at first… I was half asleep… and I thought he was… just another nurse… and then, it all happened so fast!" she wiped her eyes.

"You're a very brave person," Donovan had turned around and smiled warmly at her. Something Sherlock wasn't used to see.

"Oh, please!" he muttered, even more disgusted than before.

"Sherlock!" the inspector looked at him in surprise and resentment.

Now he started to feel really annoyed.

Why did everyone sympathise with _her_?

He had _died_ for his friends!

And the following two years had been a time of pain, loneliness, torture and he had lived through some the most horrible things that a person could undergo.

Was anybody honouring that?

If they did it, it didn't feel like that at all. They were doing stupid things that were a waste of time, but nothing that helped or did him any good.

He needed things to be like they were before the fall, but no one seemed to want to assist with that.

"Show her the picture that was drawn from my and John's descriptions. Text me if you find out anything by showing the drawings around. Relatives of former victims need to see them too. Mail me a copy, I'll take care of it."

"No way," Sally disagreed.

"Fine," Sherlock hissed and the pressure the whole situation was putting on him rose.

He realised it while it actually happened, the atmosphere in the room had changed to an unbearable pink pressure and he _needed_ to get out.

Something was about to fail, his composure was crumpling.

He left the room, then headed down the corridor to the stairway.

No one followed him, of course not, he was the unwelcome misbehaving freak.

 

When he reached Baker Street the flat felt extraordinary empty. He stood in the door and watched out of the windows.

It had just started snowing while he was in the cab and the white dancing outside felt soothing and made the world less noisy.

His agitation and anger was gone now, and he couldn't really reconstruct the reasons for his earlier frustration.

He had seen victims cry before and he had also seen a lot of them behaving worse and more distressing than she had been.

He needed to think… needed to review the evidence once more.

His coat landed in John's armchair and he started collecting all the notes and print-outs he had already collected.

Donovan had not yet sent him the drawings.

He texted Lestrade, requesting that he was brought some copies of all the recent material they had found.

While waiting, he flicked through all the loose pages he had in the file and printed out some more things from his mobile phone.

 

An hour later Lestrade still hadn't answered and he now had most of the new sheets added  to the wall above the couch. The area around the mirror was also completely covered with printouts. The newest case was on display directly over the sofa.

When he was scribbling several ideas onto some post-it notes he heard steps on the stairs.

"Uh, Sherlock. It's cold in here!" Mrs Hudson greeted him.

"Why didn't you turn on the heating?" she stepped to the control and changed the settings, shivering.

"Let's make you some tea, you're probably almost frozen."

Sherlock heard her filling the kettle.

"When will John be home?" he asked her.

"Four hours," she informed him.

"That's ages!"

He reached for his coat and took it off the chair.

"What are you doing?" Mrs Hudson stepped into his way.

"I'm going to get him."

Logical reaction, wasn't it?

John wasn't here, he needed him, so he'd go and get him.

"No, you don't. He has to work and will not thank you for making a scene at the surgery… besides, you could talk me through it, maybe we'll find some nice little things you have overseen before."

"Unlikely… No. I need John."

"Then you just have to wait, dear. Let's have some tea."

She took his coat from his hands and hung it to the hook on the door.

"I need him now!"

"Oh, behave like an adult. What has gotten into you today? He's at work and you can't just drag him home."

"Why is everybody boycotting me today?"

He knew his tone was horribly dismissive but he didn't care even a bit.

"I'm not, I'm just trying to talk some common sense into you. Here," she handed him a cup and a pastry and vanished back into the kitchen.

The thing smelled good and he decided he could sulk as soon as he had eaten it.

A moment later the doorbell interrupted Mrs Hudson's bustling and she hurried downstairs.

When she came back up she held a plate with more pastries in one hand and a large manila folder with a note on top in the other.

"A young lad gave this to me, said it was from Inspector Lestrade."

The note on top said: ' _Don't be such an arse next time or I won't take the time to get you copies in the future._ '

Sherlock snorted.

"You're having a _really_ bad day," the landlady said with exaggerated empathy.

No, he wasn't.

He felt miserable, yes, but what had that to do with a bad day?

He has constantly felt miserable for months, now. It had peaked after his return. But saying it was one bad day when his life seemed to have gone bad was more downplaying than he felt he deserved.

"Stop it!" Sherlock yelled, now fully embarrassed and annoyed, about his own sentiment and the frail thoughts he was having, like his need for recognition.

Such thoughts were not really familiar to him, usually he didn't need other people's appreciation, he wanted those to vanish again.

"Uh, dear," she hurried back into the kitchen and some moments later he heard her start doing the dish-washing.

Why was she doing that? She was not his housekeeper.

"Oh, for God's sake! I need to think, stop making noises!" he yelled through the room.

Gladly, he heard her hurrying down the stairs seconds later.

Good. Now back to the case.

 

 


	47. Tuesday - afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John encourages Sherlock to see the crime scene again when the detective is really frustrated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

"Hey, what's up?" John announced his arrival when he stepped into the living room. He had sneaked up the stairs to hear what Sherlock was doing. He did his best to make his question sound casual.

"Finally!" Sherlock hissed between clenched teeth and turned around to face him with an angry movement.

"I need…?" Sherlock paused and watched him with narrowed eyes.

"Yes?" John raised his eyebrows and waited.

The room was a mess, papers, files and post-it notes were everywhere.

Mrs Hudson had promised to watch over Sherlock today and call if something was more odd than usual, or if she was really worried about him.

So she had called John and told him about the detective's behaviour. The doctor had hoped it wouldn't have happened this soon - on the second day he got back to work - but better safe than sorry.

John wanted Sherlock to know that he was not alone in all this and after what their landlady had informed him about his mood, John decided his former flatmate needed company.

The fact that Lestrade had texted him before the Mrs Hudson's call added to that decision, and made him hurry home as soon as possible. What Greg had told him had raised his alarms already.

The doctor had seen it coming that Sherlock might not be fine alone. He hadn't left John's side for days. The doctor knew the fact that he was leaving for work was difficult for the other man.

Therefore he had taken precautions, made arrangements at the surgery for this kind of event, made sure other doctors where there to jump in. John had done his best to create a small safety net without Sherlock knowing it.

"…to solve the case," Sherlock finished lamely, no hissing or any other sign of anger left.

"Really, hardly new," John teased. "I suppose you found something?"

"NO!" Sherlock tore his hair, messing it up completely. The dressing gown he was wearing was in a pitiful state.

"Well, what do you want to do now?"

John hung up his jacket and frowned when he felt how cold the room was, he switched on the heating before he headed into the kitchen to put on the kettle.

"I don't _know_ , I've been over it all again and again and it's just… I can't think!"

"Well… Err… how about we do it the old fashioned way: tell me - explain it to me, then we'll see where it gets us."

"It'll get us nowhere!"

"You want me to let you alone with this again? Maybe you can concentrate better without me? I could go shopping," the former soldier suggested, just to see how Sherlock reacted.

"No," Sherlock sounded almost angry that he had dared to put it forward.

"Fine, then walk me through it," John sat down in his chair, folding his hands in his lab in a gesture that was clearly showing he was focussed on listening.

"Victim number one: Plymouth, female, found first, looked like suicide, delayed delivery to the morgue, Autopsy with Molly, wore fresh clothes, oral ingestion of the drug-cocktail, talcum powder, no IV marks…"

"It was the second autopsy, right?"

"Correct, Victim number two: London, female, case start for Scotland Yard, IV marks on the left leg, first autopsy, we found nothing in the flat."

Sherlock rounded the table and lit a cigarette, John didn't comment. Everything that soothed the other man was okay for the moment.

He eyed Sherlock closely, who was so busy with the case he was absolutely unaware of the doctor following his every move. The detective's obvious agitation worried him.

"Victim Zero: Bristol, almost buried as a suicide, male, no IV marks but residue of the drug cocktail on his skin, unknown fibres under his toenail, identified by his sister at the morgue, third autopsy, untouched flat, neat and clean, no signs of depression…"

"Slow down a bit, would you?" John interrupted, "I'm not that fast… show me where the evidence and pictures are located in the room you relate to."

At this speed they'd rush by everything that needed to be though through.

"The laptop was used… victim arrived in the flat fourteen hours before his death, had been missing for seven days, was not home the other six and a half days… he used face-book and twitter far to much… computer was used during his captivity…" Sherlock inhaled the smoke in between the words and that slowed down his speech additionally.

"We should take a closer look at those facebook posts, or have you already?"

"Of course, spent hours reading the nonsense."

"Maybe I should read it, too."

"Fine. On my laptop, I used his login, it's quite clear where the killer switched in, completely different writing style, though he mimicked the nonsense topics perfectly… Victim was hetero, not dating, no relationship, had contact to a 'guy4578', combination of numbers suggests the account was supposed to be short living, probably male person, couldn't find other accounts on social networks with this username."

Sherlock ran up and down the living room, forced John to turn his head this way and that to follow him.

"Victim number three: killed in London, found by friend, laying on a couch, looking as if taking a nap, tablet user also sharing her whole life with the world, tablet is missing, at home for 2 days before death, perpetrator ate pizza at her flat, cleaned up neatly but forgot the pizza boxes, he probably didn't stay there at nights, victim was dressed by the killer with her own clothes, no dirty laundry, not assaulted, treated and moved carefully, slight bruises on legs, IV marks by small catheter. Victim four…"

"Stop…. Did you summarise things that all victims shared somewhere?"

"Yes, it's over there, it's not much. The drug and the use of varying social media. The posture on the sofa and the outer appearance of suicide is shared at least by most of them. I compared…"

"Hang on," John interrupted, "Have you considered looking through older suicides?"

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks and then his shoulders sagged.

"Yes, I mentioned it to Scotland Yard, but… failed to get back to them. I guess they forgot… or thought it wasn't worth the effort… I failed to push it… Forgot…"

"Okay," John hurried to say, no need to let him go further down any depressing roads, his posture said enough.

"Add it to the to-do-list."

"To-do list? What for?"

"So I know later what we shouldn't forget… Get some structure into this, you know."

"No."

"Just do it, for me. I need this for better thinking," John asked and Sherlock fetched an extra large post-it note and scribbled something on it, it was unreadable.

The doctor frowned at the piece of paper, Sherlock's handwriting was usually neat and easy to read, this added to his concern.

He looked up at the other man and back to the note, trying to figure out if more was going on than visible on the surface.

"Victim Number 4: only survivor, missing for two days, we saw the suspect in the stairway, probably left to get pizza, unclear how he brought her in, windows covered."

"We didn't go after that either, did we?"

"What?"

"How he got her in."

"I told Scotland Yard to tell me if they find anything."

"Maybe they didn't look at it properly, did you?"

"I had no… time… yet."

This must be the first occasion Sherlock had said something like that in his whole life.

Before the fall Sherlock would have spent the whole night getting on Lestrade's nerves until he was allowed to search the crime scene himself until he found answers to his question, made John do it with him.

Now that John was thinking about it, Sherlock had stayed home every night since his return, hadn't he?

"Sherlock… may I ask why you didn't drag me out there to do it?" John asked in a low voice, careful not to let it sound like an accusation.

"…" Sherlock took breath and looked as if he wanted to say something, but closed his mouth again and kept silent.

John searched through his memories, looking for occasions where Sherlock had actually asked him to do anything or stay or come with him in his former brisk way, like he used to do.

He found only a very few small occasions, nothing like 'before', no taken-for-grantedness like before, no being-ordered-around.

The absence of this particular form of Sherlock's rudeness - which was from the detective's point of view probably only commandeering every source available to the need to solve the case - was new.

John knew this behaviour was not intended to be rude, it was more like accidental rudeness. Sherlock was doing the same with his own needs, regardlessly trampling them down in order to get the work done.

Why was this _not_ happening?

Surely not because Sherlock had started to be thoughtful about it.

John made a decision.

"Let's go."

He took his jacket, Sherlock looked at him with surprise, still stricken with silence.

He didn't move, looked a bit uneasy, in fact.

"What are we waiting for? Did I miss something?" John wanted to know.

Sherlock blinked and hesitated for almost another twenty seconds, when John did a step towards him, wondering what he had done wrong, Sherlock got out of his stupor and reached for his own coat.

"Trousers?" John reminded him.

The detective let the coat fall to the coffee table and ran off into his room.

Eyes narrowed, John stood in the middle of the room, he was pondering about what had just happened.

Get Sherlock to work, that should be the new strategy. Lately, the detective seemed to run into a lot of dead ends… maybe because he was unconcentrated, depressed, sleep-deprived and more exhausted.

John fetched his phone and called Greg.

"Greg, hi…. Can we come by later?… Yes, in fact, I think you could… Sherlock wants to see the flat of Mrs Herman again, can you call ahead and tell them we are coming, make sure we can move freely?... Great... Yeah, there's more. Can you try to get your hands on all suicide cases from the past… six to seven months… Which area… maybe the entire UK?"

Greg was a bit surprised by that.

"Yes, yes I know this'll take hours, maybe you can narrow it down and leave out all cases where the deaths were preceded by suicidal thoughts and known depression or other mental health issues… We're willing to help to search and copy, but can you make someone start?… I know it's a lot of work… Yes… Okay, thank you."

Sherlock returned to the living room, buttoning his cuffs, his jacket over his arm.

"We'll drop by Scotland Yard later, let's go," John said.

Sherlock's face showed nothing, not even curiosity about who he had spoken to, he went ahead down the stairs.

 

They were lucky and found the caretaker at Sandra Herman's flat building almost immediately.

It turned out the man, Mr. Brinks, had been interviewed by the police briefly, they had asked him if he had seen anything suspicious and if there was a second stairwell but he had negated it, so they asked nothing further, probably because they didn't want to give any details away because of the leak.

When Sherlock explained to him that the perpetrator and the victim had gotten into the building somehow while the front door was under surveillance he seemed surprised and intrigued, this little detail had not been mentioned to him before.

Before Sherlock could make a nasty remark about police work, John asked if there might be any hidden passages or other ways in, like a crossing from another building.

"I'm sorry, I know of no other way to get in here yet, except the emergency fire escape route, but it is not accessible from the outside and no-one could carry an unconscious person up there without being seen… And there's a metal hatch in the back, over a former coal window, but it's tightly locked and all metal… But I'm new at this job and… maybe we should see the building plans."

They headed into his office where he showed them the plans.

It was a mess of old sketches with numerous remarks and additional papers that showed the changes and renovation that had been done. The building was over hundred years old and had been remodelled several times.

"What's that?"

"I don't know. Looks like a duct or wire way, maybe."

They couldn't figure out what the rectangular space - which occupied at least 1,5m² on every level - was used for. So they decided to go and find out.

 

They started in the cellar and Sherlock found the hidden door almost immediately, it was behind a small rag that just covered the whole for a door handle. Since the rest of the door did not look like a door, it was only a small furrow in the wall, no-one would have guessed. This door was not built to be used regularly, it was more a movable part of the wall, made to provide access when needed.

While the janitor went to find an old door handle that fitted into the hole, John and Sherlock removed the rack, surprised that it moved easily since it was on barely visible castors.

When they carefully tried the door, it wasn't even locked.

To their surprise the open door revealed the antique looking scissor gates of an elevator.

Mr Brinks switched on his torch, but seconds later he had found a light switch and pressed it before anyone could stop him.

The elevator was there, waiting. Sherlock took out some gloves and opened the gate. The whole thing was pretty dusty but looked overall well kept for its age.

"Ah, excellent!" Sherlock knelt down.

"What did you find?" John leaned over his shoulder from behind in the small doorway.

"Footprints, looking rather fresh."

"What?" Mr Brinks tried to lean over Sherlock, too, but John gently held up a hand, showing him not to invade Sherlock's private space. He raised a frustrated eyebrow but waited patiently.

"Three… persons… maybe four… or maybe… two and one wore different shoes on one occasion… The lift was used at least twice in the past weeks," Sherlock stood up and eyed the tinged elevator controls, forcing John to make a step back.

"Ah, good," Sherlock continued and with one hand pulled out his phone and hit a speed dial key.

"Lestrade… I need you to bring a forensic team to Mrs Semman's house and…. What?"

"Herman, Sherlock," John said behind him.

"Er, Mrs Herman's house… we found an old elevator that was recently used… No, not even the janitor knew it was there, we just found it."

 

 


	48. Tuesday afternoon and Wednesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New revelations about the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

**Tuesday afternoon**

While waiting for Lestrade they checked the rest of the building for possible entrances. The only other way to get in was a large coal window, which was accessible through another street in the back of the building.

It was usually locked, but when Sherlock checked the padlock, they found it could be opened without using the key easily.

They also found one more accessible exit to the elevator, it was on the top floor, which didn't house any flats and was just two stories above Sandra's flat. Getting her down the stairs couldn't have been that hard. The elevator doors were easier to find at the end of the top stairs, it wasn't blocked, but since there was nothing there no one usually went there.

The flooring was clean nevertheless, so there was no way to tell who had passed, but the door showed signs of use.

The hole for the door handle had been painted over years ago and, like in the cellar, it was clearly visible that someone had inserted a handle, used it and then taken the handle with him, because the paint was scratched away inside the hole.

Sherlock interpreted this as a sign for usage and was eager to try the lift. He argued that up to now they weren't sure if it had been used; someone could have tried and not succeeded.  John hindered him by arguing that even if Sherlock used a stepladder to stand on to protect the footprints, it would disturb the evidence.

To his great relief the detective finally listened. The idea of Sherlock operating an old lift standing on a stepladder seemed very risky to him, but Sherlock refused to understand that argument.

They waited outside for the police to arrive and Sherlock smoked.

.

A short time later Lestrade's car stopped in front of the building, with a police unit in tow, they started to document the evidence immediately.

John noticed that Greg made absolutely sure that Sherlock understood how glad he was that the consultant had found the new evidence and thanked him repeatedly.

Greg seemed to try to cheer him up in his own way and John nodded at the DI, who understood the silent approval and nodded back.

While the team was busy Sherlock dragged John and Lestrade into Sandra's flat, where he stormed into her bedroom and opened her closet.

"Shoes," John grinned.

"Where else look for the causes of shoeprints?" Sherlock sat down on the ground in front of the four rows of footwear and slipped his left hand into a glove, then took one pair after the other out and inspected the soles.

"Right."

"This one!" Sherlock held up some relatively new trainers for John and Greg to see.

"Are you sure, mate? Should I fetch one of the pictures for comparison?" the DI asked.

"No need, it's this pair… But we need a large evidence bag for those."

Sherlock's way to stand up again was pedestrian and John noted the pale complexion and tired eyes once more, they had become worse.

They bagged the pair of shoes; it was likely the perpetrator had been the last person who had touched them.

While Sherlock locked the door after them a few moments later Lestrade's mobile rang.

"Lestrade… Hi Sally….Okay, have them brought to Mrs Herman's flat, we are still here. Ta," he hung up.

"I want the keys back, Sherlock."

The detective looked not happy about that, but handed him the small bunch of keys.

When they returned to the forensic team in the cellar, their work was almost finished and they had started to pack up.

"If you're finished I want to try the lift," Sherlock informed them.

"No way!" Lestrade interfered, "You can order it to go upstairs, but you'll _not_ ride with it. Too dangerous."

"But our perpetrator used it, so it must be working fine."

"No! Where is the use in riding in it?"

"It would be fun."

"No."

With a sour expression on his face Sherlock pushed past the last two persons who were now carrying equipment outside. John feared in earnest that Sherlock might just close the doors and start the lift, but he didn't.

He pushed the buttons from outside the cabin, prepared to jump out in case the thing would do something immediately, but when nothing happened he closed the door.

As soon as he had, the thing started its noisy and slow journey upstairs.

"Someone must have heard this," he passed them and they hurried to go after him while he followed the lift up the stairs.

.

Thirty minutes later they had knocked on every door and asked the residents if they had heard the noises before, Lestrade's team was ordered to make the lift go up and down constantly.

They were lucky. Several people had heard the unknown noise Friday night and estimated it had been around eight o'clock, which meant Sherlock and John had inspected the flat just an hour before the killer brought Sandra back. They had then started the surveillance totally unaware what was happening in the flat.

When they returned to the cellar another hour later Lestrade received a message.

Mr Brinks was in the process of hiding the elevator again by closing the doors and removing the handles.

They thanked him and said goodbye.

"Come on, let me give you a ride home, I have one box of files in my car and Sally just had someone deliver the other two to Baker Street."

"What boxes?"

"All suicides in the UK that weren't preceded by depressions or other mental illnesses from the past six months. John asked me to bring them."

Sherlock didn't react and John feared he might be embarrassed about the fact that he hadn't thought about it earlier himself.

The detective lit another cigarette and headed to Greg's car, the DI did the same and John just rolled his eyes and followed them.

**Wednesday**

During lunch break John and Mary headed somewhere where they'd be able to talk in private while having something nice to eat.

They ended up at a pizza restaurant.

"He's testing me," Mary grinned and took the first slice of her pizza. "It's never been this clear with any new person I met. He's analysing me, cataloguing, sensing, storing… and as funny as it sounds, I'm doing the same. But he passively observes, I kind of… actively push."

"What?… Honestly? Why didn't I realise?"

"Probably because you're so used to it. You either stopped asking yourself why he's doing certain things or you switched it off because you yourself are just too exhausted with all this stress. But… he seems to _want_ to be distracted, and he takes the chance with analysing me. I'll show you next time it happens, it's quite interesting... sometimes even funny. We do this fully aware and it's like a small puzzle… for both of us."

"Oh," was the only thing John said, chewing on another slice of his pizza.

He was aware Sherlock couldn't stop observing, it felt a bit odd that it was his future wife under such close inspection. He wasn't sure how he felt about it. On one hand he felt he needed to protect her on the other she seemed to… enjoy it?

"John, what happened the other night… er... Monday?" Mary asked, they hadn't really talked about it, yet. She had come home late that evening and found John and Sherlock in the detective's room, on the floor.

The sight had shocked her a bit, but the fact that John was sleeping and Sherlock seemed deep in concentration had made her go upstairs as silent as possible.

The next day John had been out investigating with Sherlock and when they had returned home all three of them had a fast dinner and then started going through the files.

Mary was eager to participate and although Sherlock seemed a bit hesitant in the beginning he included her, as soon as she had asked the right questions about with which strategy she was supposed to sort through it.

John had seen a conflict coming, being reminded of the reactions Sherlock had given Sarah all those years ago when she commented on some of the evidence during the banker case. But Sherlock had just told her how he wanted it done and they had worked in concentrated silence to narrow the amount of files down that might fit the profile.

Lestrade called a bit later and informed them two more boxes of files were ready and another few where on the way from other parts of the country.

John and Mary had gone to bed at around one in the morning while Sherlock had went on all night.

So eating lunch was their first quiet moment together since Sunday night.

John needed a moment until he answered her question about Monday night.

"Well, we did a mind palace session. It was difficult, different… He was resisting, not just a bit… Not opening up, hesitantly revealing little pieces, but nothing I could really grab. It was just small pieces of a puzzle, he refused to tell me any more than absolutely necessary. Just giving me tiny insights when he couldn't evade my probing. It was slow and tough…"

John took another bite.

"I learned almost nothing new, it was just a mess of information. But we once more stumbled into some… eerie, sinister… things. He's so pissed about not being able to control his problems and dominate his transport… I fear he's gonna hurt himself this way even more. He seems angrier than before… and pushing me away… overall a lot worse than last week."

"Is there anything I should have an eye on when I'm home alone with him?"

"If he wants to go to the mind palace… he can… As long as you or I are present - in the room or flat I mean - he shouldn't do it alone. I don't think he'll need help cleaning out the rubble, but I'd rather not leave him doing it alone.

"Seriously?" she giggled, "That's what he's been doing in there, clean house?"

"Yes."

"I wasn't aware the thing is this… _normal_. What's it like?"

John told her a few general things and how the mind palace worked for Sherlock and how he normally used it to solve cases.

"So, in general it's good for him, but it's behaving odd and he should use it carefully, is that what you are saying?" Mary finished the explanation.

"I suppose... Your decision… if it gets too odd or… stressing or whatever, try to gently stop him, don't touch him. Give me a call if necessary. It's always the unexpected with him, but I… with some things he just needs space… odd things… hard to describe."

"All right, I'll call if I have doubts. Want to change topics for a moment?"

"Yes."

"How about we try to figure out a date for the wedding in the upcoming weeks, I mean if we really want to do it in spring we shouldn't wait that much longer to start planning."

"Right, okay. Let's not confront him with that, yet. He's not ready."

"Sure."

 

.

Sherlock had spent the night and half the day sorting through the files, at some point he felt the need to move, to get out of the empty flat. The stale air and the lonely taste of it made him feel uneasy.

He wanted to get a few more things he needed to do experiments on the drug-cocktail.

All tries to recreate it or to find something that would counter-act it had been futile. He was aware it was more of a curiosity thing than that it was actually needed.

Who'd need something like that?

The victims were dead and if they weren't, no doctor in their right mind would let him give an untested drug to a patient who'd come out of it within a few hours.

He wanted to know, or maybe just use his microscope again and do some experiments, finger exercise.

He left in the early afternoon to be sure he'd be back when John would come home.

 

When he arrived back at 221b at around 16:00. He had shopped at the chemist and also persuaded Molly to get him a few blood donation kits and a whole box of blood drawing tubes with fitting cannulae and all the paraphernalia.

Molly had been delighted about the visit, even entertained him the dead body she was working on. He let her, not eager to return to the empty flat early.

On the stairs he sensed someone was in the kitchen.

He entered directly to see Mary wearing Mrs Hudson's apron.

"There will be dinner at 1800," Mary informed Sherlock.

"Where's John?"

"At work."

"Then why aren't you?"

"He asked me to go ahead. Offered to make dinner tomorrow and the day after if I went home to make some lasagne today. I accepted."

Sherlock realised in fact the flat was smelling like tomato sauce and béchamel.

He just stood there for a moment, not sure what to do.

Right. She was here, John would be here later.

What was he supposed to do?

"I… good."

'Good' was always kind, using that word would cause no harm. But he needed - or wanted? - privacy right now.

Maybe rest?

Best option: escape to his room.

"Why don't you tell me what you found out?" Mary interrupted his thoughts and shoved him into a chair, coat on and all.

He stood up again.

"Excuse me for a minute, I need the bathroom."

A moment later he found himself standing in the flat's bathroom.

Since he was already there taking a shower would be a good option. Washing away all the bad reminders of the day.

He undressed and stepped into the warm downpour.

But even after washing his hair and body twice he didn't feel better.

It wasn't working.

He stepped out of the shower, dried off and went to his room to get fresh clothes, then returned to the kitchen with the equipment he brought.

"Mary, you are trained in drawing blood… or starting a line for blood-donation," he stated.

"Sure, why?"

"I need you to take some of my blood."

Mary raised her eyebrows.

 

 


	49. Wednesday afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is busy working on the case and trying to compensate somehow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

Sherlock was sure it would be easier to make Mary draw blood than convincing John to do it. The doctor would ask more questions, would be harder to obfuscate, would refuse to draw more than two or three vials.

"What for?" Mary wanted to know.

He had expected her to ask, she was a responsible nurse.

"Experiments."

"What kind of experiments?"

"Whole range of different scenarios, mostly chemical analyses."

She looked as if not sure if she believed him.

"I'm don't know if we have a sample kit in the house," she gazed at him intently.

"I have, but I'd prefer the use a donating kit, more efficient. 500 ml would be enough to do all the tests and put some in store for later."

"Er… I can draw some samples, Sherlock, but not that much. You're still healing, taking that much wouldn't be advisable. John would throw a fit if I did that."

He held back an unnerved remark.

Maybe he should've asked Molly, she was easier to manipulate.

"Fine."

He placed the box on the kitchen table where Mary was busy unpacking the lasagne sheets. There were not only needles and sample containers in it, but also rubbing alcohol, swabs and a tourniquet.

"Oh, I see you are prepared," she commented.

"Obviously. We always had medical equipment at home, spared us several visits at the A&E in the past."

"What do you want to test?" she tried again.

"I need an answer to the question how the drug used on the victims behaves when it enters the bloodstream," he tried to be deliberately vague.

But her expression remained oddly unreadable; the only thing he saw was that she wasn't really buying it.

"Are you planning to take it yourself?"

"No."

She stared at him, obviously trying to determine if he was lying. He had definitively understood the question too fast and answered too hasty.

"Can I watch the experiments?"

Definitely not buying it - and letting him know she wasn't… and that she'd be perfectly able  to maneuver him into a dead end if in the mood.

Retreat?

One more careful try to move out off this situation.

"I'll probably do it later this night or in the morning."

"Promise me you won't take any drugs to test them!" she demanded.

"I promise," he reassured her, trying a to look trustworthy. He had recalled this facial expression often during his time away and had perfected it. The practise and the fact that he had reacted without hesitation must have eased her mind because she pointed at the nearest chair.

"Sit there… and get that shirt off. Pushing the sleeve all the way up is not an option."

He hadn't thought of that, the shirt he was wearing had indeed narrow cuffs.

Instead of sitting down he returned to his bedroom and changed into a t-shirt and his pyjama bottoms.

When he came back to the kitchen, she raised her eyebrows, maybe asking herself why he had completely changed instead of just slipping out of the sleeve?

Or was it because he wore the t-shirt inside out?

Without a comment he sat down on the chair and started to disinfect the crook of his arm himself.

When Mary washed her hands he tightened the tourniquet. She raised her eyebrows when she saw him preparing sample containers and a cannula, she was probably not used to see patients participate in this - or do the work themselves. He was just trying to minimise the touches that the procedure usually included.

The vein had already started to bulge when she sat down in front of him with gloves already on.

Sherlock had placed ten large vials on the table.

"I'll do three, if you need more tomorrow, we can do that, but not all of them at once. That's too much."

"Fine."

She drew the blood and Sherlock watched closely.

"Thank you," he tried to smile nicely at her and took over pressing on the swab once she had taken out the needle.

She washed again and resumed her cooking while Sherlock labelled the samples and gently moved them around to mix the blood with the anti-coagulant that was already in the containers.

He stored all expect one in the fridge - in the reserved compartment for experiments - then took the one to his room.

He closed the door carefully and thought about how to conduct the experiment that was supposed to accustom himself to be able to smell blood again without causing any kind of crisis.

Putting it in a petri dish would probably allow the smell to distribute best.

But the presence of Mary in the kitchen and… he felt he hadn't the necessary concentration to do this _now_. He'd wait until everybody was in bed.

Slowly, he placed the vial on the windowsill, standing upright.

He stared at it for some long moments, lost in his thoughts, then the sounds from the kitchen changed – there here were new sounds.

John was home.

Good.

It was cold and he added his dressing gown to his outfit, then returned to the the common room.

Mary was still busy while John was standing in the living room, switching channels.

Sherlock decided to lie down on the sofa once more, blending out the smells of food as good as he could.

.

"Do not interfere, just watch," and with that Mary was through the door and entered the living room. She had just finished dinner preparation and put the lasagne into the oven.

Now she headed towards Sherlock who was lying on the sofa on his back in a thinking position, feet raised on the armrest.

John looked after her, around the window panes of the kitchen door, a bit not sure if whatever she planned wouldn't result in thrown cups and destroy the fragile trust Sherlock and Mary had built during the past days.

"There will be dinner in thirty," she informed Sherlock before sitting on the coffee table, exactly where John had sat so often before. Then, with one swift movement, she removed his left sock.

John held his breath when Sherlock froze.

"Your foot is hurting?"

It actually took almost ten long seconds until Sherlock answered.

"No."

"You've been walking around with this a bit, haven't you? Since when?" she pointed at his toes.

He sat up into a position of attention, but before Sherlock had time to think how to make her stop inspecting his foot politely she was probing the toes in detail.

"That looks broken. Why didn't John bandage it?"

"He…" Sherlock started, but obviously didn't know how to finish the sentence.

She had grabbed his ankle and leaned even closer… too close, Sherlock could feel her breath and instinctively tried to remove his limb from her grip.

"Yes?"

"I didn't tell him… before…"

"God, why the hell not?" her tone had been casual but now it had changed to stern.

"I…" the detective started and gently tried to pull away. But her grip tightened and the next moment she probed the toes not too careful again,  searching for the break.

The detective was still trying to drag away when she ordered, "Don't move!" without looking up at him.

"I…"

"Hang on, just give me a minute," she had tape in her hand suddenly and before Sherlock really saw what was happening he heard it was ripped into stripes and then felt it was wrapped around his toes.

"I can't…" he was clearly taken by surprise about the fact that she approached him in a physical way like this.

"Nonsense. You can wear this a few days. You'll see it won't be as uncomfortable as you think it is, as soon as you walked on it a few steps. Then, you'll feel it'll actually take pressure off the broken toes and feels good. So, shut up."

Her moves were efficient and fast.

"What?" Sherlock sounded scandalised.

"It's a bit mean to not let John help, you know," Mary informed, but her tone carried no judgement or obvious criticism.

"What?" Sherlock was visibly irritated, and a bit unnerved. "What's that supposed to mean?… What kind of perspective is that?"

"He is a doctor, he needs to help," Mary explained. "He can't watch somebody hurt, it's bad for him. He actually made an oath to help people, no matter what. If you don't allow him to do it, that's kind of rude, especially since you're someone who means a lot to him. Why didn't you let him?"

"I… I didn't want to bother him. It's not his fault, it's mine. I was…" Sherlock realised he didn't want to talk about this.

John deserved to know things, she didn't.

But she was part of John.

Would they talk about it?

Was John listening?

The detective looked up towards the kitchen doors but John was nowhere to be seen. He could hear pots and pans were moved in the kitchen and hoped John wasn't listening.

Mary on the other hand knew he was, she had planned all her moves, careful to not overstep any boundaries too fast or too rude. She knew perfectly well she was pushing them gently; it was a social experiment, and she was sure John understood it.

She was working on getting his trust and finding her place in… this. Using his confusion seemed a good strategy, though when she was honest, she had been afraid of his refusal, or being yelled at.

When she was finished Sherlock hadn't really moved.

She didn't look at him, just casually packed the tape and headed back to the kitchen.

"What do you want to drink?" she asked to relax the situation, halfway across the room.

"Tea."

"With lasagne?"

"You ate pizza for lunch and lasagne for dinner and think it's odd to drink tea with an Italian meal?"

She hesitated briefly, obviously wondering how he knew.

"No, it's fine… As you like."

The whole interaction had only taken three and a half minutes. Their conversation and Mary's actions were like a repartee John had problems to follow.

When she returned to the kitchen John had a whimsically grin on his face, which signalled he was surprised but admired her creativity. Though he had probably held his breath while she was doing it… and that he probably knew how Sherlock had deduced what they had for lunch.

**Thursday**

Sherlock had spent the following night entirely with checking the suicide files; John and Mary had joined him now and then for a bit, but then went to bed early.

When John came down to have a shower in the morning Sherlock was still busy with the files, it was clear he hadn't even thought about sleeping.

About twenty minutes later John came out of the bathroom and a cup of steaming tea was on the kitchen table, he was wondering if Sherlock had made one and forgotten it.

When he looked into the living room to remind his former flatmate that it was getting cold he found Sherlock sipping his own cup and reading concentrated through another file.

John raised his eyebrows.

Should he ask if this was fit to drink or an experiment?

"Sherlock, what's it with the tea on the kitchen table?"

Better safe than sorry.

The table looked as if Sherlock had done some experimenting during the night, too.

"It's for you," Sherlock answered in an 'isn't-it-obvious-tone'.

"So, just tealeaves and water, no chemicals or whatever?" he teased when he sat down opposite of Sherlock on the dining table.

Sherlock looked up with an odd mixture of anger and regret in his eyes.

"Sorry. Just joking. Thank you," he tried to backpedal, but it was clear Sherlock was not amused, "Found something?"

"Several files seem to be interesting," Sherlock's tone was bored and signalled he was not eager to talk.

Mary came down a few minutes later and when the couple left for work Sherlock hadn't said another word and was still reading files.

At least he was almost finished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is about to hit bottom soon, all his friends fear it is coming, altough he's not really aware of it, but he will be soon.  
> I won't be able to update nex week, therefore I published a second chapter this week.  
> Please give me feedback, constructive criticism welcome.


	50. Thursday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It gets worse... and the case takes a new turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

It took Sherlock another hour to finish the last files, he was not happy about the results. About a dozen cases needed to be investigated in detail.

But he decided that going to Scotland Yard had to wait for now, he felt an itching need to take care of his personal hygiene - yet again.

When he undressed a few minutes later, he realised that lately he found it quite disturbing to smell even the slightest bit unwashed or sweaty.

He froze and stood there for a moment, trying to grasp what was happening when he smelled his own body odour and why he felt bad when confronted with something he should be used to.

Additionally, he felt like reeking all the time he suddenly understood; he had even showered _twice_ some days. His skin didn't like it, but he couldn't help it; his own smell was getting to him.

Now that he was aware of that it didn't take long to deduce why. The smell pushed memories to float to the surface.

He had to fight to keep them down and stuff them back in whatever dark storage they belonged to, it was stressful to do that.

Until now he must have done it subconsciously, had even shoved away the whole process.

He was evading things that reminded him of...

He closed his eyes, feeling worn out and defeated.

Something needed to be done - and soon - about this smell issue.

He decided to start the desensitisation project as soon as possible. The blood vials were prepared; he just needed to empty one of them into a petri dish and place it on the windowsill of his room.

Then all he had to do was get used to the smell by having it around all day.

He was slightly unnerved about the fact that he hadn't managed to do it yet.

Maybe it was because he hadn't been in his room all night. Or maybe he had unconsciously avoided it because his subconsciousness dreaded it.

This would stop _now_!

He went straight back to his room - no need to delay the planned task.

The liquid was alarmingly red when he poured it into the convex glass container. He tried to fade down his attention to any smells in anticipation.

Since his room was oddly bright with _muted_ light, caused by the reflected whiteness from the snow outside, the contrast between the grey atmosphere of the day and the glowing red was almost disturbing.

He fled to the bathroom and had a long, hot shower, which left him feeling run down even more.

When he returned to the living room he was already cold again.

Maybe lying down a bit and checking the chosen files again mentally would be a good idea; he could do the planned experiments later.

He even lit a fire and fetched a blanket, but it didn't feel good to use it. The fact that his body was so squeamish about a bit of cold weather was unnerving.

Minutes later he slipped into sleep, didn't even realise when it happened.

.

His phone woke him around 14:15 and he assumed he must have been in deep sleep because of the effort it took to stand and find the noisy thing.

His eyes felt swollen and when he answered he had to clear his throat twice until the "Hello" was actually audible.

"Hey, from which distant corner of the galaxy did I bring you back?" Lestrade asked, his tone vivid and kind - too vivid for Sherlock's liking.

Lately 'good' moods were getting on his nerves even more than usual.

"What is it?"

"We may have found something - or to be precise - it found us. Can you come in? There's somebody here who claims to be a witness… or victim. I'd like to have you here for the interview, we'll wait for you if you hurry."

Oh, that was interesting, indeed!

"How did she know about the characteristics of the case?" was the first thing that came to Sherlock's mind.

"Er, there was another news report that leaked some more information this morning, not too much, though… and it's a 'he', actually."

"Right. On my way."

John was not home… inconvenient.

He decided to text him from the cab and tell him about the news and to come to Scotland Yard.

 

When Sherlock and Lestrade entered the DI's office forty-five minutes later, a young man was sitting inside waiting for them.

Mid twenties, student from the university, Sherlock deduced.

The man was fumbling with his tablet computer, not playing - checking mails or something.

"Mr. White, this is Sherlock Holmes, he's helping us with the investigation. Has Sgt. Donovan brought in the sketches?"

"Not yet. Lucas, please," the dark blonde-haired man stood up to greet Sherlock, but when he extended his hand the consultant detective made a step back with his hands behind his back.

Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"Good afternoon, nice of you to come here," Sherlock said, overly friendly, trying to counteract the rude movement. "What made you come here in the first place?"

"They… they said at the TV there's someone out there killing - and before that paralysing his victims and… spending time with them and… I…"

"Why don't you sit down, lad," Lestrade tried to relax the situation.

Nervous, sweating, doubting it had been a good decision to come here, Sherlock observed while the man sat down.

He rounded the desk and sat down opposite of Lucas, on Lestrade's chair, the only place from where he could clearly see the man's tiniest expressions.

Lestrade did not comment and went over to the sideboard, from where he fetched three mugs.

"Coffee?" he offered.

"No...Thank you. I… I had a... an encounter with a man about a year ago… They said not much in the news, but what they said was… similar to what I remember, which is very little, but… it was odd."

Mr White explained that he had met a guy in a bar he had visited with friends. The man had asked about his tablet and started a conversation, claiming he considered buying that model himself. Half an hour later he went away, leaving a nickname and the name of a chat program.

Two days later - Lucas had just left his flat to see a friend - someone had appeared behind him. The next thing he knew was he was on a sofa, paralysed, another person was there, but as soon as he had regained consciousness he was forced to swallow a bitter liquid by a man, he thought it was the guy from the pub.

He had woken again later and was once more drugged into oblivion, he had felt bad at that point.

When he woke the third time someone had just dumped him in a park, it was night but he saw the man standing over him and when the perpetrator realised he was awake he punched him in the face, knocking him out.

While Lucas was telling his story Donovan came in and brought a closed manila folder that contained the drawings and sat down with them.

As soon as the young man finished Lestrade opened the folder and took out the picture of the main suspect.

"Can you tell us if the man that held and dumped you had similarities with this man?"

He handed the sketch to Lucas.

"Ehm, that were two different guys, actually," Lucas stated.

"Oh!" Sherlock made all the others flinch with his exclamation of excitement.

"Show him the other sketch, from the man that came to the hospital to kill Mrs… whatever," he continued.

"What?" Lucas flinched, "He tried to kill her again?"

"Yes, we have her guarded and he did _not_ succeed," Lestrade gave Sherlock a reproachful look, then held up the sketch of the second man.

"Is that the one?" Sherlock probed further.

"That's not him… though I was dizzy and it was dark… but... no, he was older, older than you," he said to Lestrade.

"What did you see?" Sherlock asked.

"Tall, had a hat like a baseball cap, but the military version, one of those that young soldiers wear, you know. Grey hair, slender… military boots… He looked mean."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"What else do you remember?"

"Could you help our sketch artist create a picture of him?" Lestrade asked.

"No… it was too dark and the cap covered most of his head, kept his face in the shadows. I… only remember this little bit."

It turned out Lucas had been away from home for three days and didn't know where he had been or why. He had only been conscious for seconds before he was drugged again. He also had felt very sick during and after the incident. In fact he had been so very ashamed and afraid of it all he hadn't told anyone and also hadn't reported to the police.

"So, you never saw them together? The second man was not in the flat with you and the first one not to be seen when you were dumped?" Sherlock tried to jog his memories.

"No, but I was only very briefly awake… so that means nothing."

"Is there anything else, that we might use to investigate?" Lestrade asked.

"Clothes? The shoes, that you were wearing?… The nickname, anything?" Sherlock added.

"No. I threw them away, had worn them for three days and I never wanted to see them again."

"Interesting," Sherlock added.

The other victims were dressed by the suspects.

"Can you remember the surroundings? Was it clean? What was the surface like you were lying on?" he asked.

"Sorry, I was too busy panicking and trying to fight the man to notice anything else," the young man's voice was starting to shake again. "But I... I can give you the nick and the data." He was busy with his smart phone for a moment and then showed Lestrade something on the screen.

"Oh, good! That might be helpful!" Lestrade smiled friendly at him. "Can we have that for a few minutes? Donovan, bring that to the computer scientists."

He handed her the phone and she vanished.

The rest of the interview brought nothing interesting and Lestrade offered Mr White that if he felt threatened or remembered anything else he was welcome to contact him.

.

Sherlock returned to a brightly lit flat. John and Mary were already home, as promised John was preparing dinner.

"Oh, hi," John greeted when he entered. "What did you find out?"

He had answered Sherlock's text message earlier that asked him to join the detective immediately. But he had told him it was impossible to leave the surgery, the flu season made it burst with sick patients and there was absolutely no way to get out early.

Sherlock now stood in the kitchen, still wrapped in his coat, and gave John a short summary of the interview.

His former flatmate seemed very interested and asked several for more details.

"Hey, why don't you get rid of the coat and tell me more? Get into something comfortable, dinner will be ready in half an hour."

John was busy slicing some fresh mushrooms.

Sherlock indeed felt cold and actually liked that he was still wearing the coat, but the flat was warm and cosy. Someone had lit another fire.

He headed to his room to change and get his phone's charger, it was almost out of battery power.

The moment he stepped through the door the odour hit him like a sledgehammer.

He stood rooted to the spot, a flood of memories hitting his brain and dragging him away from reality with an unyielding force.

He felt like fighting against a storm that assaulted his mind.

He fought the reality of the dungeon that suddenly appeared around him, trying to consciously remember he was at home. He clung to that thought, tried to close his mind's eyes to the image of the cellar, and recall the image of his own room surrounding him, he knew it was there.

It took what felt like an eternity to see the _real_ reality around him again.

But with the return of his home something else attacked him, something perilous.

A moment later he realised he'd throw up momentarily.

Clumsily, he dashed into the bathroom through the connecting door and emptied his stomach into the toilet.

Dizziness…

He felt abnormally and intensely sick and sank to his knees in front of the porcelain bowl.

This was not good, but he was glad that no one seemed to have heard him.

"Sherlock?"

Cheered too soon.

He couldn't answer.

His voice would reflect how he felt right now and the last thing he needed was a scene or someone hovering.

He placed his left hand on the tiles to stabilise himself and then moved over to the door, locking it with one swift movement.

"This is actually increasing my worry, what's wrong?" John said outside the closed door.

Sherlock gulped repeatedly and cleared his throat.

"Nothing," he pressed out; his voice was shaky but he did his best to let it sound loud, clear and normal.

Not in the slightest successful, obviously.

"Then I expect you to be out of there in two minutes," the doctor announced.

Great...

Sherlock pulled himself up, holding onto the rim of the bath, but the movement brought more nausea and he had to breathe deeply and gulp several times to prevent himself from vomiting again.

Three minutes later he finally managed to use some mouthwash, afterwards he stumbled back into his room, where he locked not only the connecting door, but also the door to the hall.

The smell attacked him again, it was all over his room, caused more nausea.

Moments later someone knocked at said door.

"Sherlock?"

"What is it?"

He didn't care if he was rude or not, the last thing he needed right now was someone in here.

He forced himself to ignore the smell and tried to calm down his suddenly hammering heart.

For a while he just stood in the middle of the room, opening and closing his fists in mental and physical distress.

"Come on, mate, open the door, let me in," John's voice was low now, caring and urgent.

"No!"

"I need to see if you're okay… please."

"Go away!" Sherlock realised he was yelling.

"Please…"

John's voice was a bit desperate, but he didn't care.

The intensity of the smell became more agitating by the minute and Sherlock felt like something deep inside was trying to forcefully worm it's way out of him.

It felt really bad, in a way he had never felt before.

He tried breathing through his open mouth, not knowing what was really happening. Frustration and anger were building up, too.

"Sherlock, I…"

Something snatched inside him, he took the petri dish and threw it at the closed door.

"I said go away!" he screamed - with a force that caught even _himself_ off guard.

The outburst left him panting. And while he stared at the red that slowly trickled down the door, he staggered backwards onto his bed.

He let himself fall into it and curled into a ball, wanting nothing more than the world to go away, leave him alone.

 

 


	51. Friday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary helps Sherlock understand, that John's happiness is their happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

 

When John came down the stairs the next morning he went straight to Sherlock's door, the need to check on him had kept him awake half the night. Now he wanted to know if it was still locked.

The living room table had been used during the and therefore he was sure Sherlock had been up. There was also a play station connected to their TV and the screen showed some game scores. John switched off the display but left the paddles and game console untouched.

He found the door to Sherlock's room unlocked and as soundless as possible peered in.

The other man was on his bed, his pallor was alarming, but he was relaxed in deep sleep and breathing regularly.

The doctor watched him for almost a full minute, observing the pulse on his neck and looking for any kind of distress, but it seemed all fine. There was a faint smell in the air but he assumed Sherlock had been experimenting.

John had been uneasy and restless all night after the events of the last evening but this eased his mind a bit.

He was glad it was Mary's day off today and she had promised to stay in the flat and discreetly monitor him. John's worry had been climbing constantly during the past days. She woke up when he kissed her goodbye and he headed to work.

.

Half an hour later Mary heard Sherlock loudly expressing his disapproval about Mrs Hudson's presence. She hurried down the stairs, just to see the landlady vanish down the stairs into her own flat.

"Morning," she greeted in the most neutral voice she could master. She otherwise ignored him and headed into the kitchen where she put on the kettle.

Sherlock was lying on the sofa, eyes closed.

Mary attended to a few things she had to organise, paperwork and answering mails mainly. This way they spent half the morning, not speaking, just being in the same room. Mary didn't feel ignored nor had the need to do small talk, it was just sharing the living room. The silence was not laden with anything, it was actually quite relaxed.

She wondered if Sherlock felt the same way. He was not abnormally tense or angry any longer, but neither was he sleeping. Maybe he had gone to his mind palace or was analysing things he had learned during the night.

.

In the early afternoon Mary stepped closer to the sofa, speaking in a low voice.

"Can I talk to you?"

Sherlock stiffened but didn't open his eyes, "If you must."

"Your friends are willing to help."

"I don't need help!"

"I think you should listen to me, Sherlock."

"I don't…"

"Shut up! Open your eyes and make a deduction! Everyone here is willing to help. Let them. You need it!"

"I can't…" Sherlock hissed and opened his eyes.

"If you really did all that shit the past two years to make your friends save you know how it feels to need to protect and help someone, so for god's sake accept that they want to protect you, too! Let them help! Don't refuse their help. Bite the bullet and behave like you care."

Sherlock blinked, looking as if this perspective was totally new and baffling him.

"What for waste their energy? They can do nothing to delete what happened. It is me who needs to endure this. Where is the use of confronting them with my weaknesses?"

"You are _not_ weak! And you are _not_ confronting us with anything we don't want to handle, letting friends see it won't make them think any less of you."

"Why not?"

"Because… they are _friends_."

"I hate pity."

"No one is pitting you!… What you see in their eyes is not pity, it's hurt. They see you hurt and it hurts them to feel you hurt, it's called empathy. They sense your pain and want to lessen your suffering. That's got nothing to do with pity. That's called love, Sherlock!"

Sherlock sat up, "I can't do this."

"Why not?"

"It makes me feel sick."

"More description needed."

"It feels _not-good_ , I constantly fight the impulse to hide."

"You are afraid to accept? Why?"

"Because of the unforeseeable price."

"Explain."

He sat up and placed his feet on the ground.

"When people are nice they do it because they want something. Later they come back and demand favours I don't want to give or think are inappropriate."

"Er… real friends _don't_ do that, and I can't believe John ever did something like that in the past. Not in earnest - maybe in a teasing way, but not like this. Friends will give care and love without asking for consideration, because they know that when _they_ need help they can rely on you."

"Where is the difference between these two?" Sherlock asked in a tired voice.

Why was she taking her time to explain this to him, he wondered.

"What you describe is like… pressure and what I describe is like giving something out of love… I think your friends treated you that way before the fall, though I might have the feeling you didn't really realise because you expect that everybody has to listen to you and do as you wish. When you were on your own you learned that when you needed something you had to pay for it, which was kind of new to you, wasn't it?"

"That's ridiculous. I've been on my own almost my entire adult life. No one ever did things for me out of kindness. People don't like me, they don't do things for me."

Was she right?

He had been told before he was rudely dominating people. It wasn't his intention, what she said sounded like he was a real bad person.

Maybe he was and all the people who had told him were right?

"No wait," she interrupted his musings, sensing he was on the wrong trail and it was disturbing him. "That might have sounded nastier than it should. It just sounds odd when I say it like this - too hard. Let me make an example. When you lived with John he made tea quite frequently. You expected him to make tea, you only made tea when he wasn't available or he refused. He made it because he wanted to be kind to you or because he knew you needed liquids and would forget to drink. So he did it to be nice and because he cared for you. You only seldom made tea out of your own accord. Did you ever make some because of the same reasons he made some for you?"

Sherlock didn't know what to say.

Had he ever been a friend how friends were supposed to be?

"He never expected you to do it for him and he never asked you to do it for him in return, he just did. Maybe sometimes he was cursing inwardly that you were so selfish to expect him to do it and maybe because he spoiled you to rely on him…"

Sherlock watched her stoically.

"Now, when you were away you learned there were only two ways to get a tea: go and buy one it in a café or something, or make someone make one for you by being nice or convincing them to do so…. So which did you usually do?" Mary raised her eyebrows in question.

Sherlock asked himself how to answer that.

"So, when John offers you a tea nowadays, would you refuse it because you feared he wanted money or…"

Sherlock understood the last one was a rhetorical question, was this one, too? No, it wasn't, she wanted him to understand, this was a rather childish example.

"Your perspective changed, I didn't know you before, but I think you saw and learned a lot the past two years when you were on the run and hunted, and were also hunting and fighting to survive… and I think you need some more time to come back to London and the civilised world. You changed more than you think and you hate that you can't just switch yourself and also everybody else back to from two years ago. But I am sure there are several good things you learned, like valuing friends. Don't get this wrong, I know you valued them before, but maybe you were taking their actions too much for granted."

The way she said it made it didn't sound _really_ bad, at least not as bad as he felt.

"I know you are hurting with your experiences. But… don't hurt yourself and others by not moving on… things have changed, things change, things will always change. Now that you have suffered from negative experiences you might understand the suffering of others and not dismiss it as totally irrelevant what they have been though in the future. Respect it, you know?… Or are you disgusted because you descended down to their level? Which in my opinion would be the absolute wrong way to see this… but it's been heard of that people think that way."

"I…" Sherlock started, knowing there was nothing he could say to that but felt the need to …?

Was she trying to provoke him?

Her tone was friendly and Sherlock was confused. She was different than other people, harder to read.

He had sat with his elbows on his knees the past minutes, staring ahead, but now he looked up at her.

"Accept their help. Some people actually have seen the dark and know what to do," Mary interrupted his rambling thoughts.

"What if it makes John worse to help me?"

"It'll make him worse if you don't. A sorrow shared is a sorrow halved."

"That's one of the most imbecile sayings I ever heard. Sorrow shared is sorrow doubled."

"Oh, god… don't take it literally, you know what it means, don't you?"

"Of course, I have a database to translate empty talk."

"Good… Err… Do you think you'd actually recognise help when it is offered?"

He looked like a schoolboy, caught not knowing an answer.

"Oh, Sherlock… I… Okay…"

His knowledge of human behaviour was so extended she often forgot it lacked actual real life experience sometimes, and intuition.

"When others offer things that might make your day a bit easier, then accept because that it one form of help. Trust John, he knows what it feels like to deal with traumatic memories. He can help by explaining coping techniques to you, just listen to him. Don't send him away when he tries to talk about things - it's quite hard on him, too - talking about feelings and his own bad experiences," Mary explained. "Healing in this context means baby-steps towards better times. Learning strategies to cope and endure the bad times, the bumps in the road. Just accept anything that is offered in order to keep you going. That might be a cup of tea from Mrs Hudson or a friendly presence when you have bad memories haunting you. I know it doesn't feel like it'll ever get better, but it _will_. John once told me solving cases with you and going out on adventures helped him a lot to cope. Of course it didn't erase the bad memories or soften how horrible they were, but he experienced positive things that made the hard times a tiny bit easier. And over time the depressions and nightmares abated. You helped him a lot with this, intentional or not, but you did. Let him help, too."

"I also _helped_ making them come back. I have no right to ask anything from him."

Mary remained silent for a long moment; the remark must have been odd or unexpected.

"This is not about you asking him, this is accepting what is offered. Let him help, this will heal him and you. Just do it. If you'd ask him for help he'd probably be really happy about it, because it would show that you still trust him like before the fall, and that would actually help _him_ heal."

Sherlock looked unsure and hesitant.

"He has nightmares, yes. You see, you both need to help each other, this is the only way to get things back to normal."

"The help I myself can offer for example is to provide company, you know. If you feel bad you can just seek my presence. We don't need to talk or do anything, sometimes the single fact to be not alone in the room already is good to drive the bad memories away. Actually getting sensory stimuli to dissipate horrifying reminders is something else everybody of your friends is happy to provide. You already accept distractions some of your friends offer, go on, it's good."

"How do I really know they _want_ to do this? I can't be certain. What makes you think he wants me back?"

"Oh, Sherlock…" she felt near to tears suddenly, he sounded so abandoned, and as if he was not longer certain of anything he had thought he knew before. This wasn't untypical in his situation, the negative thoughts and depression nagging at his soul, she knew that. Actually it might be helping on to express them for once.

"What makes you think he doesn't? Why do you think we are here?"

"He's angry," Sherlock mumbled.

"What makes you think that?"

She decided to monitor John a bit closer, although she thought he was getting over it rather fast, now she asked herself if it was true.

"Maybe he is. But that has got nothing to do with wanting you in his life or not, or helping you or not."

She saw in his face that he didn't understand.

"I am angry at him sometimes, too, but that doesn't mean that I don't love him. Maybe it's even the other way round, I care about him and therefore I fight… that's a bit odd to explain, but you don't fight with people you don't care about, because they are not worth it," she knew it was a lousy explanation, but she had no better idea how to put it spontaneously.

"He's angry with me sometimes, too, that happens in human relationships, it's quite normal, it does not mean he rejects you, you know."

Sherlock stared at her.

"Come on, it can't be new to you that people are angry and quarrel sometimes."

"It isn't."

"So why do you think that makes him not want you back in his life? Would you leave him because he did something he did?"

"Of course not," Sherlock said in a don't-be-absurd-tone. "But I overstepped the line… did things that can't be forgiven."

"You think you deserve to be forgiven?"

"I did it so save him."

"I assume that means 'yes'. Why don't you forgive yourself then?"

"What?"

"You heard me. He has forgiven you, he'll be angry for a while, because this was really bad, but he'll get over it some day. Just keep going."

"No, he won't. He just endures me. Like everybody else did all my life, now he does it, too. Because he's a good person and wouldn't kick a pathetic broken freak like me, because of our former friendship."

"Sherlock! This is definitely not what he thinks! He knows you are regretting how it all turned out and that you are sorry. And deep down there you know that!"

"I don't know any longer what I thought I knew!"

"Just go on and you'll both be fine. And trust me when I say he has honestly, really, truly forgiven you and wants you back. If he wouldn't he'd left right after you surprised us at the restaurant - and he wouldn't have tried to come to the flat the next day… and he surely wouldn't have spent time here with you, caring for you. He loves you like a brother. Don't shove him away; it would be the same mistake all over again, keeping him out of the loop. I mean not inform him about what you think and plan to be precise, would mean jumping on the bandwagon. Don't. Tell him, get his trust back faster by telling him."

Sherlock didn't answer at first, then whispered, "How am I supposed to do that?"

"Just go on, show that you are truly sorry, and talk to him, at least answer when he asks you, honestly, keep him in the loop. You think you can do that?"

Sherlock raised from the sofa, stood there for several seconds, then nodded.

Mary knew John had briefly been over this with the detective before, but she wanted to point it out, too. He needed to get this into his head, needed to really understand.

"Did you find out anything last night?" she gestured to the notes that littered the table next to the laptops.

"Can you do me a favour?" he asked, ignoring the question.

"Depends."

"Bandwagon… it's meant like hitting the part that's already bruised if I got that right… Don't use proverbs."

"I'll try. What did you find?"

"Some hints about the nickname the perpetrator used to store his scores at Mrs Herman's play station… He was careful to choose one he thought he hadn't used before, but I found an old entry in a message board, which is several years old actually. The forum is for military personal, young recruits can ask questions there… the topic of the post is - as far as I can see - not related. I texted Lestrade to get the server protocols."

"You think the police can do that?"

"Not sure. It's a server run by the military and maybe the data has been deleted years ago."

Mary made him explain her more about the research he had done, in the beginning she had just tried to make him concentrate on something else than his dark thoughts, but now she found this case was getting more and more interesting.

 

 


	52. Friday evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A surprising evening out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

 

The moment John closed the front door behind him he heard loud voices.

"For god's sake, leave me alone!" Sherlock yelled and the former soldier hurried up the stairs.

To his relieve Sherlock was neither rude to Mary nor Mrs Hudson, it was Mycroft who was standing in the middle of the living room, still in his coat and umbrella in his hand.

"You'll come or I _will_ tell them about the incident at Birmingham, when you…," he didn't finish the sentence because Sherlock, fully aware John was in the room with them interrupted him, obviously it was also nothing John was allowed to know.

"Fine!" the consulting detective spit and headed off to his room.

"I'll pick you up at half past seven," Mycroft raised his voice and a moment later Sherlock banged his room's door shut with unexpected force.

"Good evening, John. Must be more hellish than usual to spent time here. I'm quite grateful you are doing this. Tonight you are free though, we'll go to a concert. Thank you," Mycroft nodded his approval and turned to go.

"Stop treating me like an employee, Mycroft," John grumbled, still a bit tense with the situation that had greeted him.

And where the hell was Mary?

"Oh, I beg your pardon, it wasn't my intention," the older Holmes stopped and sounded over-friendly, which did not soothe John's nerves at all.

"I merely wanted to express gratitude for trying to help him and being here. I _am_ worried."

"I know," John simply answered.

"Call if you need anything. See you later," Mycroft was out the door a moment later, not waiting for a reply.

John went up the stairs and found the door to his room ajar, Mary was on the bed with her tablet computer. He knew she had been listening closely.

"What happened?"

"Actually Sherlock and I spent the day in quite an… educational mood… until his brother showed up."

"Oh, great first impression?" John grinned at his future wife.

"Uh-huh," she rolled her eyes.

John leaned down to kiss her briefly before he started to change.

"He's exactly how you described him… Sherlock and I were making progress, after not talking the first half of the day we spoke about trust and accepting help... in detail. He opened up a bit, even asked questions and then we talked about the theories he has about the case."

"Let me guess, then Mycroft showed up and all the relaxed atmosphere was gone and the yelling started."

"Exactly. They send me away when I tried to do some _de-escalation_."

"Never step between them when they're have a shouting match. Took me years to gain the right to do that," he grinned.

"Mycroft and his parents want him to come to a concert. There's an event... something special. Violin or something... at a fancy place.  Sounded _very_ high-class."

"Probably is."

"Sherlock insinuated Mycroft had plotted it to make him pay for the musical he had to go to with his parents when they were visiting last time. But Mycroft stated that it was nonsense since they were all four going."

"Oh!" John just made, raising his eyebrow in an exaggerated style. "He told me we have the evening 'off' from babysitting."

"I heard."

"Right."

"So, what do we do since we have the run of the house?"

"I have several ideas, actually," he kissed her again, a bit deeper this time.

"Me, too," she answered.

.

They decided to go out and ten minutes later they headed downstairs to have dinner before they leave.

The hope that they could make Sherlock eat with them was soon gone, he refused, stated he'd eat with his family later.

John thought that he was fabricating it and opened the door to his room through which Sherlock had answered his request for joining them.

The bedroom was brightly lit and Sherlock stood in the middle.

It was quite chaotic. Usually, Sherlock's room was not such a mess - in contrast to the rest of the flat.

Now, clothes were _everywhere_ , a perfectly ironed tuxedo was lying on the bed, next to a crumpled all-day-suit. Sherlock must have doffed it and thrown it there, but not recently, he had obviously worn his dressing gown all day.

Once more John frowned about the unaired smell of the room, there was an undertone of decay, but he couldn't spot anything that might be the cause of the odour.

"What's the smell?"

"What smell?" Sherlock asked innocently, but John did see something in his eyes, something hesitating.

"It's an odour that reminds me of something decomposing. Have you been experimenting?"

"Yes… Yes, it's an experiment."

John looked around again but once more saw nothing, he frowned.

Something was not right here.

While inspecting the room, the doctor's eyes strived the bed and he recognised the tuxedo was the same one Sherlock had chosen to wear as he revealed he was still alive, surprising him. So, it wasn't just a costume, it was Sherlock's own.

Why did Sherlock own a tuxedo?

John tried to remember if he had seen it before or if it was new.

Had Sherlock worn it because it was supposed to be a message or just because he had known he'd be able to blend in with the waiters that way?

John picked up the expensive looking garment.

"What is it?" Sherlock sounded harsh and confused, he laboriously disrobed himself from the dressing gown.

He was now only in a t-shirt - which he wore inside out - and his pyjama bottoms.

It was quite cool in the room but the first thing that sprang into John's eyes was that the shirt was wet with sweat on larger areas.

The doctor frowned and tried to sound casual while he eyed Sherlock carefully.

"Is this yours?" he asked, raising the hanger with the tuxedo.

"Of course. Whom else should it belong to?"

"Would you have worn it, too if I had met Mary at a tuck shop that night?" John tried to disguise the real meaning of his question.

"I _did_ wear it in the tuck shop that night, two tuck stops to be precise," Sherlock palliated the description of the event.

John turned the expensive close hanger and inspected the back of the jacket, he knew it must have been soiled when he had thrown Sherlock to the ground, and it was indeed messy in the back. There was also some small reminders of the nosebleed Sherlock had suffered by John's hands on the lapel.

"That was _not_ what I meant."

"I only wear a tuxedo at special occasions, I thought it was one."

"So the answer is yes, you would have?"

The detecitive turned away and started to search for something in his wardrobe. Some seconds later he turned to the hamper and dragged out the rumpled shirt that was a part of the expensive outfit, when he saw it was stained with blood in the back, from the torn stitches, he hastily stuffed it back in the hamper and tried to conceal it, hoping John had not seen it.

But it was too late, his former flatmate looked sadly down to the tuxedo in his hands.

"Well, I can still wear a sheet."

John looked up surprised, "Where _are_ you going?"

"To hear a very extraordinary violinist, special occasion," Sherlock's mimicked his brother's tone.

"That sounds nice, doesn't it?"

"Although I greatly admire his abilities, I do not like to listen to him in a room full of breathing, coughing and smelling people. Their pure presence disturbs my hearing, as do the perfumes, the cosmetics and the aftershaves. Maybe I should have pointed out that I plan to actually wear a sheet, it might have made my brother abstain from blackmailing me into coming with them," Sherlock mumbled.

"Oh," John just made.

Before the situation could become any more awkward Mary came down the hall.

"Boys, this was just delivered," she held up a suit bag.

"I hate when he does that," Sherlock muttered, took the large bag from her and threw it onto the bed as if it was poisonous. Then he took his own suit from John with care and returned it to his wardrobe.

John zipped open the newly arrived bag and whistled.

"Wow," Mary said. "Maybe you guys should wear tuxedos at our wedding," she suggested. "Come on, get into it, I want to see."

"Shower first," Sherlock envisaged a fashion display and made plans how to evade it.

 

Since Sherlock refused to eat with them and vanished into the bathroom, the couple changed plans and decided to have a nice dinner at a fancy restaurant as a start of the evening, then decide what to do later.

Sherlock left the flat at half past seven, in a tuxedo that was concealed by his coat, and without letting Mary's protest stop him.

.

The couple went to their favourite restaurant for dinner. They arrived at 221b after a really nice evening about a quarter past midnight, there was already light in the flat.

When they entered the living room John was surprised to see Sherlock's father sitting in Sherlock's armchair with a cup of tea in his hand, his posture was the exact same one his son had.

"Oh, hi," he greeted the whitehaired man, grinning.

"Good evening," he stood up and shook his and Mary's hands. "My wife is with Sherlock, bedroom."

While Mary excused herself to get into some more comfortable clothes John glanced towards Sherlock's room, not hearing anything and not sure what that meant. He also didn't really know how to start small talk with Sherlock's family. They had never spoken before and their first meeting two weeks ago was kind of awkward, Sherlock throwing them out and being rude and all.

The man already had tea, so John asked the first thing that came to his mind.

"Everything okay? Something happened?"

"No, he's probably sleeping."

"What?"

"He fell asleep on the sofa while we were talking about his work."

"Oh…" John knew he looked a bit dumbfounded.

Only Sherlock could be so rude to actually do that, was his first thought, but on the other hand for Sherlock this was a great gesture of trust - to sleep in someone else's presence. The doctor briefly wondered if Sherlock's parents were aware of that.

Probably, mothers knew such things.

He felt a bit uneasy, not knowing what to do or say.

Why the hell had Sherlock never introduced them before?

"We had quite a nice evening. Sherlock told us you proposed to Mary. I assume that was the young lady that came in with you?"

"Yes."

"Oh, good evening Dr Watson," said a calm female voice from behind John.

John turned around and saw Sherlock's mother behind him.

He took her outstretched hand.

"Since Sherlock _forgot_ to introduce you a few weeks ago… I assume he was very nervous to see you again and couldn't muster the… whatever… Glad to finally meet you."

John raised his eyebrows.

Was that why Sherlock had been so rude, because he was nervous?

John had assumed he didn't want them to meet, probably because he had hoped that John wouldn't find out that they knew he had been alive, too… or maybe they didn't know that John didn't know and Sherlock feared they wouldn't like to learn it?

Were they talking about such things at all?

Somehow John couldn't imagine a family meeting - not even with a lot of fantasy - and especially not with Mycroft in the picture. This situation was already more than strange.

"Glad to meet you, too."

"He fell asleep on the sofa. We decided to leave, but then he became breathless in his sleep and when I touched him he stood up and shuffled off to his room. I have to admit I'm a bit worried… He just lay down in his bed and slept on. I checked on him several times and he seems to be fine, but… You'll be here, tonight, right?" she asked John.

"Yes, I will. The whole week in fact."

"Oh, good… good. He was a bit odd today."

John wondered what Sherlock's mother considered 'odd' and what 'normal' with Sherlock.

Did they know why Sherlock was in such a bad state? How he knew Sherlock and Mycroft they would _not_ talk about such things.

"Mycroft told us he's a bit overworked."

That answered the question. They hadn't, so John kept his mouth shut.

"He is. I'm glad he managed to get asleep, actually."

"He did," Mrs Holmes grinned and rolled her eyes, she didn't even sound offended that he had done it mid-conversation.

"The boys... they talked quite a lot about his current case."

"Did they?" John had considered suggesting that Sherlock asked Mycroft about finding out several things the police had no access to without months of paper work, but had assumed Sherlock would throw a fit as a response.

Had he asked Mycroft himself now?

Wow, that would be an eye-opener.

"We don't want to disturb any longer," Mr Holmes had finished his tea and slipped into his suit coat and his wife now also took her coat.

The brief encounter ended with them shaking hands again and moments later they were gone.

For a moment, John just stood there, perplexed by the meeting, then he headed down the corridor and sneaked into Sherlock's room.

He checked on the detective, who was in fact sleeping deeply.

She had said Sherlock had been _nervous_ the day he had come. That meant she knew why and how... and - in general - more about the situation. Somehow that made John's heart a bit lighter. He didn't know what to think of Sherlock's parents, but the detective seemed to trust them and also have a certain degree of good contact to his mother and she was informed about John and even his marriage.

It eased his mind, somehow, as did the fact that Sherlock was obviously talking about him.

John and Mary went to bed shortly after that, too.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I bet you are well aware this is the silence before the storm? Things are about to go downhill, brace for more.  
> Sorry, this took longer than usual, life was a bit busy.  
> I love to get feedback, feel free to enlighten me with a review.


	53. Saturday, late morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft worries, as does John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

 

"Morning," Sherlock greeted the couple who were having breakfast at the dinner table.

"Hi, how was the concert?" Mary cheerfully asked.

"Good."

"Really? Not as bad as you expected with the people and all?" John gently teased.

"It was fun and I had a really nice evening," Sherlock said in a monotone voice that said quite the opposite.

"Is that a bad lie or sarcasm?"

Mary tucked at the detective's sleeve when he reached for the paper she had just finished, the gesture was supposed to underline a certain familiarity and John was glad Sherlock seemed to be okay with it.

"Fine," he answered.

"Sherlock, are you listening at all?"

"Absolutely."

Mary laughed about the clearly ridiculous chat.

Sherlock honoured her amusement with a small but poorly disguised sad grin, then shuffled into the kitchen and made himself a cup of fresh tea, ignoring the coffee on the table.

When he returned to the living room, making moves to sit on the third chair, Mary stood up.

"Here, sit here, it's your place anyway. I'll meet a friend in an hour, I have to hurry."

She smiled at them and hurried up the stairs.

Sherlock sat down and poured four spoons of sugar into his tea.

"So, anything new about the case? We could get out, do some research," John offered, signalling he was fully available, "You know, investigate, and do interviews, whatever."

"Not really any news… Lestrade is still looking for a way to get the server protocols and I'm still trying to figure out which components were used in the drug."

"Why is _that_ so important? I mean you've been on this drug receipt since day one of the case."

"Because one or two ingredients might be quite exotic, and therefore hard to get, or at least it would attract attention to try to get them, legally or not. But as long as I'm not sure which ones were used, I can't start to search."

"How many nights have you spent experimenting on this now?"

"Stopped counting after the sixth," Sherlock hadn't looked up from his paper and now started to accentuate the vowels in his words.

"Oh… Not easy, then," John sensed the raising tension and tried to soothe it a bit.

"How does it help us if you find out what's in there?"

"I've narrowed it down. There are four possibilities of what the two missing components might be and I just need to test them all, in different mixture ratios with the rest of the chemicals. Molly and I were not able to find out what they were even with the machines," Sherlock's speech gathered speed, "Which means it's quite exotic and doing hundreds of little tests. It's boring and time consuming. I tried to do it backwards in the beginning, finding an antidote first and hoping to find the solution by drawing conclusions what works and what doesn't, but no such luck. It's a patience exercise."

John smiled about the last words.

"The fact that the first victim stated he felt very sick from the concoction makes me wonder who mixed it. Chances are high our villain does it himself or has it made especially for him by someone else, which would mean even more people know about this. Because no one mixes a concoction like this without knowing what it is used for. Well, it also means the mixture was 'adjusted' to eliminate the side effect of nausea. Wonder who complained about that particular side effect."

Sherlock had repeated to John and Mary what Mr White had said the same evening but they had not spoken of the case since.

"Lestrade texted last night, saying that it would take ages and days of paperwork to only file a motion to get access to the protocols, not to mention the… well, I'm quite sure he'll be refused, so there dies the one hot lead we had."

"Why is it so hot?"

"Can't you at least pretend to think sometimes?"

John decided to ignore the insult, "Military?"

"Why do you ask, then?"

"I wanted to be nice, have a conversation, you know. Discussing things tends to solve problems, because due to the interaction new ideas can flourish. Conducting light kind of thing, remember?"

"Oh. Right. Didn't mean to…" Sherlock's tone changed to a mixture of friendly insecurity suddenly.

"So, tell me. Why military?" John asked when the other man seemed unable to find the right words to finish the sentence.

"One of the men wore military boots, that's one of the few things Mr Black remembers."

"White, his name is White," John was wondering if this was Sherlock's kind of humour getting this name wrong in this particular way, he  grinned, hoping to loosen the conversation a bit this way.

 "Whatever," Sherlock dismissed it, sipping from his cup.

"Talked to Mycroft about the case?" the doctor decided to address the unpleasant topic.

"Superficially, told him what was going on. I couldn't listen to my parent's all-day non-sense any longer, I needed a few minutes with something interesting in my mind, enjoying real thinking."

"Have you asked him for access to the server logs or something?… Or to run a face recognition software from CCTV footage?"

"Of course not! Don't be stupid, discussing this with half of the most high-ranking diplomats, ministers, and royals around would be dangerous for all of us. Besides,  I don't need his help… or his bickering about my inability to solve it on my own," Sherlock spit.

"You should consider it, you can't solve anything without data, this is just collecting data, has nothing to do with you being able to solve the case. No one questions your abilities," John tried to clarify. "The user of the nickname might have dropped out of the military early. Maybe within the first few months of training, since the nick was only used briefly as you said."

"Or he just didn't like it and changed it… or he wanted to distance himself from the question, which was a bit stupid, to be honest. There are thousands of possible reasons, one as plausible as the other. And I… " Sherlock explained.

"Hang on, considering how slow going this case is, and how badly we need the tiniest of clues - I think you should ask him, Sherlock."

"Suggestion noted," Sherlock sat his cup onto the table with a hard 'clonk' and stood up.

He returned to the kitchen and sat down in front of his microscope, obviously not making any moves to contact Mycroft.

John sighed and once more desperately searched his mind for ideas how to cheer Sherlock up a bit.

But the next moment he remembered how he had thought about people trying to brighten him up after he had been shot, and then later, when the first symptoms of PTSD had shown.

The staff in the clinics he been in were often over-cheerful and over-enthusiastic all day, to an amount, that grated on his nerves. Their false smiling and laughing felt like a mentally clumsy and mocking effort, disparaged his suffering. Of course as a professional he knew why they had to behave like that, but he had hated it nevertheless.

Was Sherlock feeling the same? Being forced to endure people trying to make him happy when there was nothing at all that could make the world good at the moment.

No, they weren't laughing and smiling and trying it in such a crude way with the detective. In fact, now that he thought about it, most of the time everybody seemed to have adopted a mourning and sad mood in the past weeks. Well, there was not much to be cheerful about, but were they all walking on eggshells?

Probably.

John knew his own mood was everything else but good, Mary tried to fit in and arranged with the moods she faced.

But it was more than clear that Sherlock was quite depressed, trying to solve this case caused the opposite to what everyone had hoped. Also, Sherlock wasn't appreciating good moods around him, but in the past, when he was fine, he hadn’t liked them either, so that it wasn’t welcome now was no wonder.

.

That afternoon John decided to get some groceries, besides, he needed some air.

The detective was obviously not planning to leave the house at all, and John wanted something fresh for dinner.  The amount of sugar Sherlock used in his tea and coffee had depleted the stock and they'd be out of it this evening.

The former soldier had barely left the house and made it a few steps down the street when a black limousine came up behind him. John noticed the vehicle as it passed him and rolled his eyes when the door opened. He entered and found himself next to Mycroft.

"John? Good afternoon," the older Holmes greeted.

"Hi, what can I do for you?"

"I'm not sure… Our visit to the concert last night was… untypical. He barely spoke, was behaving not like his normal self," Mycroft stated without much of an introduction.

"I know."

"I'm at a loss, so are our parents, and I think it's time he takes some ADs, at least."

"What happened?"

"Nothing concrete. It's more what _not_ happened. He tried to be his usual self, but even his smugness felt staged. He had no fun teasing me, was not enthusiastically criticising my diet, nothing."

"You did this to make him feel better?"

"Yes, of course, my definition of fun does _not_ include listening to people creating sounds on instruments. I had quiet enough of those for a lifetime when Sherlock learned how to play the violin as a child. I'm not fond of this kind of entertainment."

"So, what is your definition of 'fun'?" John asked, just out of curiosity.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, "I arranged last night to entertain my brother, and because my parents insisted to meet him again. We are worried."

After the initial surprise of Mycroft's worried tone John sighed.

"Right, me too. He's getting worse in the past days. We are way past the point were even I would recommend a patient should take ADs."

"That sounds like a good idea in my opinion."

"Did he ever take antidepressants?" John wanted to know.

"Yes."

"What did you do to convince him to take them?"

"I'd rather not talk about it… besides it's not a persuasive precedent."

"Oh, right… Er, you don't happen to know what it was and if it worked?"

"I'll have a look at the documents. But I remember it hadn't the hoped outcome."

John raised his eyebrows.

Had Mycroft everything in his files?

"He won't like the idea, but I assume, you already guessed that."

"Yes."

"I'd be profoundly grateful if you manage to convince him to try it again, since he wouldn't listen to me anyway. You're probably the only person that has a chance to be listened to."

"Of course, I'll do my best," John promised. "Can you do me a favour? In case he asks you for help with the current case, don't be smug or teasing or whatever, just do what you can. He's additionally self-loathing because he can't solve it. He'd be better if he had at least a bit of success with finding some clues… something… anything! He needs information Lestrade can't get."

"Naturally, I need a bit more background information than what he told me last night to start _digging_."

"Well, why don't you come up with me and we talk about the case?" John suggested.

"You don't honestly think he'll welcome it, that you asked me, I mean?"

"No. So, we need a pretextual reason to explain your visit."

"Forget it, he'll know, no matter what we plan."

"Right. Let's just tell him, then."

"That might jeopardise the rest of acceptance I still get from him," Mycroft said.

"Yes, but it can't go on like this."

"No, it can't."

"This is stagnation. No changes in days. I fear he'll kind of… explode or whatever soon. Nothing is happening and it's driving him mad. And mentally…-" John hesitated for a moment, "I mean, this back and forth is normal for a person in his state, having bad thoughts over and over again and having to be reassured. Doubting everything and everybody's motives, it's what makes this all so hard to endure, the setbacks and the thoughts moving in circles, but… he needs a lift in morale, urgently… and… he's resisting my suggestions and tries to help enough already," John explained with a sad undertone.

"He's getting worse when alone. I know. As long as you were babysitting all day around he was distracted. He's getting worse without you."

"Bloody hell, I know that. Are you trying to put additional pressure on me, make me feel even worse with this whole disaster?…" John was getting angry, this was hard enough. "I fear my presence might be not enough and that he might turn away. Could you please not add to that!"

"I was just pointing out a problem, not at all blaming you. You're already doing much more than I expected. I feared you'd punch him and then never speak to him again, and to be honest, part of me tells me he'd have deserved it."

"But the other part… that government side of yours, is telling you that you the end justifies the means and therefore it was all the right way to act," John felt he was getting pissed again.

Better cool down, this was not helping!

He bit his lips before saying another word about how Mycroft had been to blame for creating the situation in the beginning.

"I might be glad about the outcome, Moriarty's web destroyed, but I am certainly not glad about the consequences - but they were unavoidable, yes. I want to offer help now, assist the both of you, it's the least I can do for taking part in saving us all, and what you endured. Since it was partially my fault as you say, so… I was not at all blaming you, quite the opposite. I think the fact that he still hasn't turned to drugs or lost it, is due to your presence and efforts, for which I am grateful. I wanted to say we need a solution for this, since you can't follow him 24/7 for the upcoming months. Suggestions?"

For a moment John was speechless. He hadn't expected this much positive feedback if one could call it that. Mycroft seemed to mean what he said.

"No…" John huffed out sadly.

"Me neither. It worries me…"

They sat in silence for a few moments.

"So, the best thing I can do right now is help solving the case… I better come by later and bring something from our parents, something they forgot to give him last night… and then get involved into the proceedings."

"Okay, see you then."

John was dropped off in from of his favourite grocery store, and went ahead with the shopping, but he was distracted thinking about how to solve this.

.

When he came back home Sherlock was staring down his microscope while experimenting.

John stored away the food and the milk while Sherlock dropped liquids onto slides and petri dishes, made notes and crossed out numbers.

They worked in silence until suddenly Sherlock jumped up from the table as if stung.

"Oh!" he yelled.

"What? What is it?" John's first reaction was to search the other man for injuries or blood, but Sherlock once more leaned over the eyepiece cups.

"Look!" he gestured John to take a look himself.

John did, jacket still on, "What am I seeing?"

"It's the right one, it's this one!" Sherlock cheered.

"All right, so… you know what's exactly in there, now?"

"Yes! Let me double check," he sat down on another chair and continued to make a new mixture in a fresh dish.

"Now I only have to figure out the right ratio, sort of fine tune it."

"Good!" John praised.

"Where's my phone?" Sherlock looked around in searching mode while John got rid of his coat.

The doctor returned to the room in time to see Sherlock stand up again and sway, he had to hold onto the stove.

"Sherlock, when have you last eaten?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does, when?"

"Sugar, this morning."

John sighed once more, it seemed he had done this quite often today.

"Sherlock, you…."

"Not now! For days this is the first good tail I found, could you not destroy it by pestering me with the nastiness of my transport!" Sherlock hissed. "Phone… phone…"

The detective started running through the flat looking for it, until he remembered he had placed it into his dressing gown pocket, which was now in his room.

John mercifully kept his mouth shut and started to unpack the groceries, looking a bit frustrated, though. But Sherlock had no time for this now, he needed to do some research and call Lestrade.

He let himself fall into his chair in front of his laptop and started typing enthusiastically.

John frantically thought about how to busy himself without appearing to be hovering in a bad way and ended up with cleaning the kitchen, it was needed anyway before anyone could think of cooking dinner.

After a few minutes of typing and reading Sherlock finally dialled.

"Lestrade? I need you to send out somebody to the following distributors and find out if they recently sold one of the following…." Sherlock recited a long list of chemicals, then names of firms with addresses. "Monday?… No, now!… Why?……. Oh."

Lestrade must have told him it was Saturday and probably the DI wasn't even at Scotland Yard, and also that the firms were closed on weekends.

"Oh, I'll check the unofficial dealers, then… Why don't you come by and have a beer with him, I am sure he'd be delighted to have company tonight," Sherlock hung up without a greeting and resumed typing.

"What are you doing? Did you just invite Greg for a beer, with me?"

"He'll check the pharmaceutical firms on Monday, I'll see some dealers tonight, plenty of time for you to do some… whatever you do at a pub when hanging around with him there… Beer's in the fridge."

"I'd prefer to come with you, to be honest."

Sherlock would have liked to hear that on almost every other occasion than this one.

"Er…" he hesitated, "…better not. They know me and are not fond of people they don't know, I might not learn what I need if you're present."

John was quite alarmed about this, but hoped Sherlock would not sense it immediately, he seemed a bit less attentive to people's behaviour lately.

Or was he just too distracted by his own misery?

Was this a danger night? Was Sherlock trying to get him and Greg out of the way?

The doctor feared Sherlock could be tempted to turn to drugs by meeting people form that particular scene again? Would he ask for more than information?

John tried to keep his face relaxed, but decided to take a look into Sherlock's room later, as soon as he was on his way. To search for any drug paraphernalia, just to be sure.

As bad as Sherlock felt at the moment it made him very vulnerable to escape the cruelty of the world in such a way.

John couldn't blame him for the wish to escape his personal hell, he knew to well how it felt to wander in it. The urge to get some rest from it all might be strong enough to make Sherlock have a relapse.

The consulting detective was already retreating and John didn't want to do anything to drive him away faster, but he needed to keep him safe.

The doctor fled to his own room for a bit, because he felt he was getting increasingly nervous, the more he thought about it. He started cleaning the upstairs room, too, to make it cosier for Mary and him.

He added a few things he had brought back from their flat a few days ago, a bit unsure if this was sending wrong signals to Mary. While he worked, he left all the doors open, to hear exactly what was going on downstairs.

Sherlock continued to experiment.


	54. Saturday afternoon, Sherlock's POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is home alone and trying to work, but his mind is occupied with other things than the experiments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

 

When John left the flat to get groceries Sherlock hesitated, on one hand he uneasy about John leaving, on the other it seemed childish and on the third hand he wanted to continue the experiments.

It was making him… _something -_ angry maybe - that there was no progress with the case.

It couldn't be that he had become such an imbecile, unable to solve anything, it added to his feeling of being a wreck.

He hoped John would be back soon, not allow him to be kidnapped or whatever, on the way.

Frustrated, Sherlock leaned back in the kitchen chair, he was sitting in front of the microscope and had just changed the slides.

Something was off, more off than the past days.

What exactly was his unconscious mind so unsettled about?

He felt _so_ much lately, it was disorienting.

So much useless information that was disturbing his concentration.

In a sudden urge to move, he stood up to make another coffee.

He needed to _focus_!

Two years ago he would've done these experiments in a quarter of the time.

He was slow, dysfunctional and it was increasingly getting on his nerves.

He wondered if he was giving the impression to the outside world to be angry or pissed or… _something_ , but he had no clue where it came from.

Deep in thoughts he had finished preparing the beverage and sat down again with the mug.

After the third sip he realised the coffee was way too hot to drink and that he had just burned his pharynx.

With clenched teeth he put the mug down.

It was not the first time this happened, his pain reception had derailed - he suffered from hypersensitivity and hyposensitivity, depending on the input he was getting – or not, one more reminder of what a mess he was.

He couldn't control anything, not his mind, not his body and not the case.

It was disgusting.

And his coping mechanisms caused more havoc than good.

They were useless.

So carefully chosen and established, and now he understood they were just… nonsense. Something empty that only pretended to help but in the end it compounded the problem because it was just a stupid _coping_ mechanism.

He had long lost hope that this could to be over some day, he just expected to manage to conceal it.

But when he was honest with himself his ability to hide it was fading away with everything else.

How long before he'd hit a wall that would make him finally crumple?

How long until John leaves because he was disgusted, too?

Or should he make sure John was not here when it happened, spare him the sight?

He felt something else slowly shooting up in his torso, desperation and fear... maybe?

It was making him nauseous - the experience _and_ the idea that it really was fear he was suffering.

Mary had said they wanted to help, but… people only said that, right?

As soon as things go rough they leave. They only offered it to be polite, but no one really would stay through it.

Also, he had been told long ago and repeatedly that no one had the right to request something like this from other people, crippling their lives, because one wasn't able to get over the own problems. It was not okay to ask for such a thing, not even okay to accept it when it was offered - that was what he had learned in his youth.

Once more Sherlock felt betrayed by the falseness of the world and the stupidity of existence, and especially human society with its useless platitudes and superficial or false emotions.

There _was_ an emotion in his mind right now, but although he struggled, he couldn't come up with the right term.

It was like a hidden area in his existence that was experiencing pressure, but he couldn't find its location, neither was he able to release the stress nor to prevent some ominous event.

 _Unsettled_ would probably describe it well enough.

It had an aspect of being pissed – definitely; something near bursting… and something that wanted to scream because it was all so wrong and unfair… Quite an alarming feeling.

All he could do was tag it with a 'keep dialled down' order.

He should've known, he should've killed any hopes and the desire to return to his old life when they started to rise in the beginning.

Instead, he had let them grow the more of Moriarty's network he destroyed.

He had started to hope to return, to make it all good again.

Why had he been so stupid?

He should've known better. He should've known that everything in his life that was only the tiniest hint of good would be taken away from him or destroyed sooner or later. He had been through that often enough to recognise the pattern; family, school, university.

As soon as he found something in his life he valued, others had come and destroyed it, often out of pure spite. 

He remembered the first time he had recognised that pattern clearly.

It was when he had been about fourteen and tried to build a house of cards when his class had been on a field trip on a small ship.

He just wanted to try it, it was a challenge; a bit nuts, but funny. It was about wanting to know if he could manage, and he had sat down in the mess hall of the ship.

He had built the thing quite large, so in the end it would have at least ten or eleven storeys. The thing was, he had steady hands and managed to build it to the last but one storey without great problems.

Peers had informed him of how stupid the idea was but hadn't interfered.

But finally one of his classmates had come by and taken away a card from the bottom level, which caused the collapse of the structure.

He remembered he had been stunned how she could be so mean, to end a try like this in such a brute way, but people were mean and he was supposed to bounce back and try again. Because giving up was not allowed and childish.

So he had tried again. This time he made it to the second to last storey and again she came by and made it collapse.

That day he had learned a lesson. He had not tried again, because he understood that he _would_ be able to manage enormous tasks, but he'd never reach them because of the disgrace and meanness of other's.

It was even more frustrating because he wasn't boycotted by those who wanted to reach a goal first - which he could at least comprehend, even though he'd never had similar ideas as a child, only as a grown up he had adapted this when it came to safe human lives or solve crimes.

That day he had learned that people destroyed ideas and minds and great things out of fun or the enjoyment they got out of spite. It was a concept he never understood but had been quite often the target for.

He held the hot mug to his brow, something else inside him - he also couldn't name it - was squirming.

It was like a hunger for something. Mental hunger.

For what? Maybe the same emotion that was threatening to combust, just in a different manifestation?

This was so tiring, why weren't even emotions pure?

Why were they an undistinguishable mix?

He didn't know how he felt and why and how to make it stop.

The latter became more and more of a problem the last days.

There was a desire to just make it go away, make the mental agony stop, it was tormenting him day and night. Though he was managing to cage the memories that sprung up all day quite well, at night it was hard.

… and he was _so very_ tired, hadn't confronted himself with the smell of blood since the night it had caught him off guard and he had thrown up and felt sick for half the night after entering his room.

The faint smell still lingered there and - he put the mug down with a hard noise - he realised he was avoiding his room therefore.

This must stop!

Had he allowed things to slacken by not confronting himself with the same intensity for days?

No wonder it wasn't working. He was getting mellow and it was gross.

He didn't like being this way and he'd not allow himself to glide down that surface.

With a jerky movement he stood up and opened the fridge, the beer bottles produced clanking noises due to the deft movement.

No one had drunk any beer, probably their primary goal was to get away from him, not having a pint, when they met at a pub.

He should have known, by buying it he had just embarrassed himself.

No one wanted him around.

People who had said they did in the past, had only said it because it was impolite to say the opposite and decorum forced them to utter such things.

What right had he to believe he was allowed to burden John with his presence?

John should be happy with Mary and children and he had no right to disturb his plans of a happy family.

He reached for one of the blood samples Mary had taken earlier and poured it into a small drinking glass.

The smell made him clench his teeth but he concentrated on accepting its presence and that it was a part of his body.

Remember how it had smelled _before_ the cellar, receive the smell like is had been.

Try to connect that old feeling with the present, circumventing the reminder of the dungeon.

He suddenly sensed he was breathing heavily and leaning against the counter, his knees felt unstable.

Suddenly, anger about his weakness rose and with stubborn determination he pushed himself away from the surface and returned to the microscope.

Half an hour later he was shivering from freezing and covered in sweat at the same time, the sensation was really getting to him.

Body temperature controls seemed to be broken, sweating profoundly more and more often became an inconvenience lately, although the flat was rather cold.

On several occasions John had complained that he had turned down the heating. Now, he had to admit, it had nothing to do with the temperature of the room, it was his body that was malfunctioning. Cooling down the environment didn't help. He was soaked in sweat no matter which temperature the air had.

It was an ugly lilac sensation, like his skin was feverish, but his core crumpled with grey coldness, and cold matte needles were piercing the hot skin all over his body from the outside.

He had to acknowledge that this was another feeling he didn't know, or was it a sensation? His transport was going nuts and he had not a single idea what caused this.

The drops of sweat once more ran down the sides of his torso, the shirt started to stick to his skin.

In frustration he threw the pencil to the table and switched off the microscope, then hurried to retreat into the bathroom for a hot shower, hoping it would warm his core at least a bit.

Before John no one had even raised an eyebrow about the fact that he was missing. The two years of absence had been a bit like that _before-John_ time. It made him remember how it felt to be a no-one, a shadow, ignored by society and dwelling in solitude. The concept had become strange to him while living with John.

Since John had been almost always present while they shared the flat, he had grown into Sherlock's reality with the implicitness and steadiness of a tree growing into the ground. He had become so used to it, he had totally forgotten how it felt to be _not_ missed, having no one to return to, and being out of this companion.

It made him feel homeless again and young and… lost. The longer his hunt had lasted the more intense John's absence had hit him, very hard on several occasions, until it had started to make him physically sick, about six months ago while he was in Asia.

The time in the temple - while he was waiting for the woman to appear - had been literally a life saver, the monks had helped him, without him even noticing in the beginning.

First, the meaning of everything they said and did seemed to be hidden behind a veil of words, he couldn't understand the meaning of their utterances, he just accepted and stored their words. That meaning, for him it was 'emotional' translated into 'mystical' into 'English'.

But after a time he gathered strength due to their care, he hadn't even realised they were giving him. At some point he had begun to translate and then to understand.

It had helped, it had been good for him, their wisdom a guide in the dark.

In the end it turned out to be the only place he was not eager to leave after his task was done; he considered staying a bit longer, gather strength, but he knew he needed to arrive in Germany at a certain date to be there in time for a trial.

He had been better for a few weeks, until he was stranded in Hamburg, where he found he couldn't outrun how bad he needed to return home.

He wondered if this was what people called _homesick_ , but the thing he missed most was John. He also missed the flat, his violin and London, in that order. So he assumed homesick wasn't the right term.

He had been desperate to know how John was and it felt like physical pain to _not_ just take the phone and call him, it had become a constant nagging feeling to miss his flatmate, an ached that squirmed in misery somewhere in the back of his mind.

This reminded him why caring was a disadvantage, feeling this and being hindered by it made the work more dangerous. But he had felt absolutely sure that once he was back in London everything would be fine.

It hadn't occurred to him in any variation that it might not.

He had been so naïve…

Sherlock felt the hot water run down his back and shivered when he realised, that if he _had_ known, he'd probably not made it back home. He would've given up in the dungeon, he'd just let them do their job and slip away, let them kill him.

He tried to remind himself that John would never ever forgive him if he went away like that again, so this was not an option.

He had to endure this, but he was so very tired.

Some part of his mind demanded rest and a short while without the darkness around him, to breathe again, to see some light, so gather some energy.

He needed a break, be oblivious to all the problems.

The problem was he was well aware that there was a chemical solution to his needs - morphine.

Maybe it would be good to have some in the house.

Was there some of it in John's medical bag?

Probably not, Mycroft would've removed it.

John would yell at him and be angry if he took meds like this on his own. He would probably be so angry he would leave. But at least then it all would be over.

Was he ready to throw John out for the doctor's own good? After such a long time missing him and longing for his presence?

No.

In the end though he knew he'd have to be rude to protect John from himself, if he wasn't managing to get better.

His self-loathing raised up another notch.

John was trying, but he was not able to receive his care and make his efforts effective.

It was his fault! He did it all wrong in the beginning and now continued to fail.

He was damaging everything good in his life himself now.

Maybe he should stop torturing everybody with his presence. He was no good, not to the case, not to John, not to the victims and not to Lestrade. He was a burden, nothing else.

But John might be damaged if he refused him and left again - that was what he had asserted, and Mary had, too.

He reached for the towels and started to dry himself - not freezing felt good. The heat of the water had turned his skin red, hot water was nice. 

Back to work!

The process of trying every combination of mixing the components that was possible was dull.

While he was away he had sometimes had wished to be home and have his equipment, had looked forward to use it again, but now that he was back, he was not enjoying it.

The feeling was empty, just a brittle shell, the promised delight missing.

John would be home soon, better remove the blood.

He returned to the kitchen and the smell of blood hit him like a blow to the diaphragm.

Panting, he stood in the door and held onto the frame for what felt like a very long time, until he tamed the wild panic that was raging in his chest.

It took a few minutes until he managed to step over to the table where the glass with the dark red liquid sat indifferently.

He picked it up and brought it to the windowsill of his room, John wouldn't like the kitchen to smell like this.

Ten minutes later the battle against his emotions still raged, at some level of his consciousness, although he did his best to contain the sentiments. This fight left him wet from perspire and miserably cold again; he wanted relief, he detected once more.

Not good, shoving the thought away.

He wondered if he had felt warm at all in the past days… and an image sprang to his mind. John sneaking into his room when the doctor thought he was sleeping, checking on him - a warm and secure sensation.

It had happened several times since his return, John appearing when he was only half aware, making sure he was there and not in too much distress.

Would anybody do such things out of politeness or was it real care?

Ashamed of himself he considered the possibility that John was honestly caring and it was him, who was afraid to like it or trust that it was a good thing.

That was what Mary had said, hadn't she?

He was once more disoriented by the multiple directions and variations of human behaviour, it was all so confusing… At least he hadn't thrown up when he was caught off guard by the smell this time, he hoped it was a sign the confrontation was working.

Heavily, he sat down at the table, continued to test the combinations of drug ingredients.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The example with the ship and the house of cards is real, happened to me when I was young.  
> I'd be delighted if readers gift me with feedback. Constructive criticism welcome.


	55. Saturday evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft visits and Sherlock meets some of his old dealers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.  
> .  
> Special thanks to my loyal readers who stick with me and especially those who give me feedback. Thank you guys for staying, you're great!

 

 

Two hours after John had returned and Sherlock had found the key ingredients of the drug cocktail, there was a knock on the kitchen door.

"Expecting visitors?" John asked.

"No. It's my brother. Umbrella tip against the floor, though he carried it as soon as he reached the bottom of the stairs."

"Come in, living room," John yelled over the sound of the telly.

"What do you want?" Sherlock rudely greeted his sibling.

"Mummy left this for you, she forgot to give it to you before."

Mycroft handed him a large package of what looked like special blends of coffee and tea.

Sherlock took it with a frown, "Thank her for me."

Now John frowned, saying thank you wasn't something the detective usually did.

"You'll do it. It's the least you can do. You know how much she'd like to hear from you now and then. Now you have an excuse to please her, take it… and thank her for last night. Show gratefulness for once."

Although John shared the idea in general he now looked up at the ceiling in annoyance.

Hadn't they just talked about Mycroft not being smug a few hours ago?

Sherlock returned to type something on his laptop, as if his brother wasn't there.

Mycroft started to inspect the case notes and pictures that littered the room.

"So, this is the case you are currently working on... You woke my interest in this puzzle last night. Seems to be quite a difficult one."

"Are you here to gloat? Go away. I might have a trail and I need to work on it."

"One of my _colleagues_ introduced me to a new face recognition software, he was eager to test it. Do you have a picture?" Mycroft asked casually.

"We only have sketches, useless for this kind of programs."

"Yes, they are. What _do_ you have?"

"Nothing, or I'd have solved it already!" Sherlock exploded, "What do you _want_?" he repeated.

"Entertainment, to be honest. My schedule today is extraordinary dull and I'd prefer to _play_ deducing with you rather than attend a meeting with… but that's no business of yours."

Sherlock eyed the other Holmes suspiciously.

"Are they still in London?"

John needed a very long moment until he understood the detective was probably talking about his parents. Mycroft of course was more used to the sudden mental leaps and understood immediately.

"No, they left this morning, after breakfast. I was referring to some people at… _work_."

Sherlock seemed not interested to introduce Mycroft to the case and when John realised that, he decided to push a bit.

"Actually Mycroft, there might be a thing Lestrade can't do, official channels are just too slow and… the military might refuse to help anyway."

John felt Sherlock's unnerved and angry gaze on his back, but he ignored it.

"Oh, military. What is it? Of course I can't promise to be of any help, but it might be worth a try."

The former soldier started to explain, he deliberately did a lousy job, in order to make Sherlock take over, it only took  thirty-five seconds until he did.

In the end Mycroft announced that he was sure he'd be able to find out who had used the nickname - if the data still existed. A few minutes later he had vanished down the stairs  again.

Sherlock's mood had dropped into a temperature range that was close to freezing by then. John therefore decided to make some tea and wait until the atmosphere had changed to something distinctly positive before heading for the next sensitive topic, antidepressants.

But the detective was not eager to let himself being dragged into any conversation and answered John's questions with monosyllables while he continued to experiment.

The doctor had thought now that he had found the drug that was used in the cocktail he'd stop experimenting, but the chemist tested and tested.

After another hour John finally dared to start discussing the subject.

"Sherlock, I want to talk to you about something, can you listen for a moment?"

"If you must."

"During the last days… I had the impression you were not really with us, you seem to be… absent. Er, concentrated inwards and… in quite a dark mood. Often, I have the impression that your body is physically present, but your mind is somewhere else. Far away and wandering in things that don't do you any good - and I don't mean the case."

The doctor tried to see any changes in Sherlock while he spoke, and found his movements were turning stiffer.

"You're working on autopilot most of the day, aren't you? You're not really paying attention to the physical world. And I… I wondered if you'd let me prescribe some ADs for you, nothing severe, just some mild stuff."

Sherlock halted mid movement, not looking up, though. He didn't respond for almost ten seconds.

John hoped he was really considering the offer, but then Sherlock continued the begun movement and answered with an almost huffed, "No."

John hesitated, not wanting to give in that fast.

"I think it would make things a bit easier on you and help you gather some strength. You know, you wouldn't need so much effort to keep depressive thoughts at bay and therefore can concentrate on the important things."

"I… said… No!" Sherlock repeated, now with a slightly threatening undertone.

"Oh, come on, it's not that I suggest you take the heavy duty stuff, I just want to aid a bit with this. You'd profit from that." 

"I'll surely not profit from things that will dull my thought processes, kill my motivation, make me drowsy and my legs restless! I usually suffer more from the side effects than I benefit of those medications, therefore I _will not_ take any of those!"

The last words were spoken quite loudly and to underline the message Sherlock let his flat hand hit the table which send the jars and beakers clinging.

The doctor flinched about the controlled – or pretended - anger Sherlock was broadcasting.

"Alright, then," he said with a firm voice and returned to the living room, sitting down in front of the telly.

.

Another two hours later he had gathered enough courage to approach Sherlock again, this time he suggested to do another mind palace session, but the offer was turned down in a similar way, only this time Sherlock seemed not as pissed as before.

Instead, he sounded tired and demanded to be left alone, which made John even more uneasy, feeling unable to help and being sent away.

When he tried to convince Sherlock to give it a try the detective retreated to his room and banged the door shut after himself.

John stood drained and out of ideas in the kitchen, wondering why it was all going so wrong.

.

Later that night Sherlock went out to gather some intel about the used drug. He met his former dealers as well as some new ones, the latter were recommended by the ones he knew well.

Of course he was offered a variety of drugs at almost every meeting, and of course he had known it would happen the moment he had made up his mind to seek for information in these circles.

In fact, when he left the house he had he considered buying something to make them talk and then throw whatever he bought away. He had to admit, he had thought about seeking chemical relief repeatedly in the past months, he hadn't given in, but now… now, that everything was in pieces, he wondered what he was even fighting for. 

The conversation with John had underlined the argument to take something, to help his mind rest, though not in a way John would approve.

It couldn't happen, he shouldn't do it… No!

He wouldn't even buy anything.

The will to fight was brought back, by the thought of John, for a few hours at least.

It was gone when he finally stood in front of his most reliable dealer - the one with the best quality supplies - and the man offered him cocaine.

He was able to decline, but then bought some morphine pills.

Pills, because they were less obvious and less risky to cause addiction, chances were higher to get addicted by injections.

They were just to have them in the house, for emergencies. He'd store them away and wouldn't use them if not absolutely necessary.

Fifteen minutes later he was back in the cab and he realised it was ridiculous. The dealer had slipped a vial of liquid Morphine Sulphate into his coat pocket when he was about to leave, had told him it was a bonus for coming back, and that he was always available and could get almost everything Sherlock wanted.

Only moments before he had reliably informed him that the things the detective was looking for couldn't be bought from him, too special.

Sherlock hadn't given the vial back, internally argued it would have made the man suspicious.

He just shoved the thought away that it was there and concentrated on the case.

Now, that he was sitting in the cab, he wondered if that had been deliberate.

He decided John mustn't know, and that was when it dawned on him, he had already a subconscious idea of what would happen, and that he'd succumb to the need to get some peace and rest from the cruelty of his current existence.

John was right, he needed a pause, relief… but he needed to be careful, John couldn't know, he'd tell Mycroft and his brother would make his life even more miserable than it already was.

He needed to be strict, exercise control, only take _one_ pill in dire need, carefully avoid to slide down the road of addiction, keep the addictive factors as low as possible.

With a huff of sarcasm, that made the cabbie look at him in the rear-vision mirror, he understood he _was_ weak and had fallen into his own trap already, out of habit.

He immediately had a bad conscience about his own thoughts, but a few moments later he let it all drop, because it didn't matter.

His world was gone, he was broken, everything was lost, he couldn't do this any longer, nothing mattered anymore. John would be better without him and the sooner he'd realise that and give up pretending to want to help the sooner this ordeal was over, for both of them.

Maybe he should retreat to Leinster Gardens and try the purchase, but that would probably have the effect that Mycroft was alerted before midnight, and from that moment he couldn't move around freely in London any longer.

Avoiding Mycroft's cameras would be time consuming and troublesome. Also, by this he risked that Mycroft found out about his bolthole, and that was the last thing he needed, this one was supposed to be a secret from _everyone_ , his last resort.

So he headed back home, the only thing he had learned was that a person, who roughly fitted the description of the suspect, had tried to buy ingredients from _someone_. A person one of the dealers knew, but he hadn't spoken to anyone who actually had contact with the man or was able to describe him more than superficial, it was all hearsay.

Some of them knew where Sherlock could get the ingredients, because the suspect's request had made people attentive to the stuff, but Sherlock had his own sources and wasn't interested in buying more. So one more trail was getting cold.

Miserable and once more frustrated he sat in the back of the cab, shivering, outside a wet mixture of snow and freezing rain stormed against the windshield.

Would Lestrade be with John? He better be prepared to meet them there.

He felt the vial in his right coat pocket as he reached for his phone.

The detective decided to make a detour to get some stuff from Molly, he was not eager to meet the inspector with the items in his possession. Besides, in his youth he had promised Mycroft – as a rule - to always have Naloxon in stock when he had drugs in the house, too.

Also, he wanted some more blood to be drawn and suspected Molly would be easier to persuade than Mary or John to do it.

As soon as Molly had answered his text and told him that she was on duty this night he ordered the driver to change designation. 

.

One hour later he stopped another cab, now intending to head home.

Successful meeting, Molly had drawn half a litre of blood, which would be enough for loads of self made confrontation therapy days, and he had nicked meds and syringes.

By now chances were high Lestrade would've gone home. It was past one in the morning and Molly had been delighted to have company on her boring night shift.

Sherlock had just told the cabbie his home address when his phone broadcasted the arrival of a text.

_'Where are you? JW'_

_'On my way back home. Lestrade still there? SH'_

_'Wasn't here. How long? JW'_

Sherlock didn't reply the question and made sure everything was neatly stored in his coat so that it couldn't be seen or looked suspicious.

He assumed John was still downstairs and waiting for him due the tone of the text.

Would he pelt him with questions?

How he knew John he'd be aware this might be a danger night, and now Sherlock understood it was in fact one.

A moment later he sank deeper into the seat and thought about how this was not one in the sense Mycroft meant it, it was more that he needed rest and sleep than that he was tempted to get high from cocaine.

Suddenly, he became aware that his body was pestering him with increasing exhaustion and for once he was ready to give it what it wanted, rest, but his mind needed some rest, too, and he wouldn't get any without a little help. John had suggested it himself.

Filling the blood donation kit might have added to his tiredness, and he briefly wondered when he had eaten last before deciding it didn't matter.

He had in fact felt dizzy while Molly had slowly tilted the bag this way and that to keep the blood from lumping as they watched the red liquid filling it slowly.

The car arrived at 221b.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review.  
> Constructive criticism welcome.


	56. Sunday, after one in the morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes home and gets a bad surprise a short time later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

 

Sherlock climbed the stairs a few moments later.

As expected, John sat in his armchair, idly reading a magazine.

He looked up when Sherlock entered, the detective felt his intense gaze scan him thoroughly.

"Found something?"

"Not really."

"What does that mean?" John seemed a bit on the edge, his tone was tense.

"One of the dealers knows someone who has met our suspect, but nothing concrete and I was not able to meet that person myself."

Sherlock felt the next logical question coming, the one he had before hoped would not be asked.

"Bought something?"

Sherlock had passed him and was half across the kitchen, when John asked.

"Don't be ridiculous," he loudly answered, and hurried into the bathroom, where he planned to hide the medications for now. His room was too risky because of the surveillance cameras.

He'd hide it to his room later, when the situation was more relaxed.

When he closed the door behind him he heard John had followed him.

Good choice to go to the bathroom, John would've followed him into his room without hesitating.

He hurried to slip the syringes and vials into the space behind a glazed removable tile under the bathtub, then pretended to wash his hands, better talk to avoid suspicion.

"Didn't Greg show up?" he was sure John was standing outside the door and spoke in a normal voice therefore.

"Called and asked me if we could do it some other time, emergency call from the yard," John replied immediately.

"Our case?"

"Didn't say."

"Did you ask?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"He'd tell me. No need to get on his nerves."

Sherlock opened the door and saw John leaning on the wall opposite the door, arms crossed.

Searching for his phone in his pocket Sherlock headed into the kitchen, as predicted John followed him.

He removed the well packed blood transfusion bag from his other coat pocket and returned to the kitchen, hoping his former flatmate would stop following him around because it felt ludicrous, he opened the fridge to place the small bundle inside.

"What's that?"

"Human body fluids."

"Right, visited Molly, then?"

"Obviously."

"How is she?"

What kind of a stupid question was that?

"I assume she was bored - and delighted about my visit, at least that's what she said."

'"Just a friendly visit, then?"

"Yes, of course. Is there a deeper meaning in this? I start to feel constrained."

"I just need to be sure if this is a danger night or not," John unbagged the cat.

"Oh, for god's sake!" Sherlock hurried passed him and into his room, the doctor followed suit, though slower this time, "Did you inform my brother already or do I have to endure more insulting questions by _you_?"

He hung up his coat, to the back of the door and then unbuttoned his jacket.

"You look like hell, what happened?" the doctor stated suddenly.

"I _am_ tired and would prefer some peace and quiet," Sherlock admitted. "And I'd like to change."

"To do what?"

"John, do you honestly believe if I was about to take..." he paused, "The only thing that is happening as a result from these questions is that I'm getting unnerved, nothing else."

If he'd be able to go to John and tell him he planned to take drugs, he'd be in the same state of mind that would _prevent_ him from taking them in the first place, therefore the dialogue was absolute non-sense.

He wondered if John would understand this causality, or if it was too abstract, but if he did, he'd probably not ask.

"Shit, Sherlock, why don't you trust me with this?"

"I do trust you."

"Obviously not to an amount that tells you to come to me with this kind of stuff," John turned away and returned to the kitchen, stopping next to the table and roughly rubbing his face.

John felt betrayed and frustrated, and even more desperate about the situation than in the past days, after waiting all evening for Sherlock.

"You're the only person I trust," Sherlock said after him, in a rather low voice.

"Well, obviously it's not enough."

John had heard him, had listened.

He hadn't expected that and was caught a bit off guard by it.

"Are you deliberately hurting yourself? Because that's what this looks like. No one can be this blind and dumb when it comes to his body's needs. I don't know what you did or why or if it included drugs, but this feels like you'll kill yourself sooner or later."

The detective needed a moment to understand John was not solely talking about the taking-drugs-group of themes but his general health.

He indeed felt heavy and standing seemed to be a growing effort. He should get some coffee with sugar, soon.

He threw his jacket at the bed and slipped into his dressing gown, when he tied the belt he saw he was shivering, maybe from the cold or from the stress or whatever.

Then he strode past John into the kitchen, putting the kettle on.

"Are you cold?" the doctor had spotted it immediately.

"Yes, in fact I am," putting John's mind at rest accommodating him a bit. "It's sleeting."

He had barely said the word when he sensed something tugging at his mind, he hadn't used the word in ages, hadn't felt cold icy half frozen rain on his face.

The last time had been when…

When...

The mental tugging grew stronger, and suddenly became so intense he felt his mind tumble into it.

Suddenly, he felt a wet mixture of ice and snow hitting his face, making him gasp in surprise.

It was hard to manage to open his eyes.

He was outside.

When he finally could, he realised he was lying in a puddle of melting water that was mingling with drops of his own blood.

He was beyond exhausted and his surroundings looked like the middle of nowhere.

Dazed, he stared into the cloudy sky above him.

How did he get here?

When he tried to get up, he realised his body was too weak, he was trembling from the exposure and exhaustion.

Boneless, he collapsed into the ground again and felt his whole body was freezing and soaking wet.

When his head made contact with the concrete ground he didn't even feel pain.

How did he get here?

Where was _here_?

Then it hit him with the urgency of holding a firework rocket… He had swam through the river to escape.

Small ice floes had cut him while he had fought for his life in the disgustingly cold water. He had dived to avoid the bullets of his chaser, but the man had obviously decided to let him go, not eager to jump into a freezing stream in the dark of the early morning.

It meant the fight hadn't been over the moment he reached the other side of the river.

Sherlock had been dragged downstream quite a distance before he had managed to cling onto a rotting landing stage with his stiff fingers.

It must have been only minutes ago, otherwise he'd be frozen to death already and would not feel anything any longer.

He needed to get out of the cold soon, his chances of survival were decreasing every second he spent outside.

Hypothermia was only minutes away.

Stiffly, he rolled over and saw an old ruinous industrial building about fifty metres away. The rural landscape was covered in a thin layer of snow and seemed otherwise deserted, no cars or people anywhere to be seen. Three large slim chimneys were ominously hovering above him in the early morning sky, one of them slightly listing to the left.

He needed to move!

Now!

He needed to survive to get back to London, to John. He couldn't die like this, he needed to get his sorry ass moving!

With agonising slowness he managed to move towards the building, kept alive only by the stubborn refusal to die here alone, his clothes and limbs were stiff from the cold, hindering his movements.

More stumbling and crawling than walking he reached a large room, which led to another, that opened up into something that seemed to be an old terminal inside the building or adjacent to it, he was only dimly aware of his surroundings now.

He needed shelter and to get out of his wet clothes.

To his great surprise he spotted something that looked like a stack of old burlap bags, rotting and… he dragged himself closer… with an old holey sleeping bag on top of it. If he didn't get out of the sodden clothes fast he'd be dead in a few hours.

No choice, then, this smelly bundle of fabrics might be his life saver.

His transport's refusal to obey made the process of getting out of the of the soggy trousers awkward, he fell twice during the process.

When he finally managed to climb into the smelly bedroll his fingers were bleeding. He wondered briefly if there were rats, but it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was getting warm and staying awake. His haunter would be on his track as soon as he crossed the river.

 

He slowly resurfaced some time later, before he was fully conscious he realised he had - against his will - fallen asleep. The surge of panic caused by that realisation brought more wakefulness.

His entire being was assaulted by severe pain and it took some time until he was able to eye his surroundings closer. He needed a moment to remember why he shouldn't sleep.

A flickering light in the distance… it was a fire!

He sat up, terrified.

Someone was here!

The sudden movement caused an intense wave of pain that robbed his breath and a moment later his struggling consciousness.

 

The next thing he knew was someone was trying to instil him with a warm liquid. Rough hands pried open his mouth and he heard muttering in a language he knew he spoke, but that was momentarily not translated by his muddled brain.

He tried to shove the hands away, only to realise he was too weak to even raise his eyelids, much less his hands. The faint smell of stale beer was in the air.

Another human in this close proximity was bad.

The touch of the foreign hands caused nausea.

He felt at the mercy of a stranger and betrayed by his own transport, that was no longer able to do the slightest bit to preserve its own life, not fighting, nothing.

Rising panic caused his breathing to speed up, he tried to keep it down.

Liquid pooled in his closed eyes because his own vulnerability was so unsettling. Something rose in his mind... in his agitated state he was unable to identify it, and then all of a sudden that something burst.

When his mind reeled into panic and he helplessly started to hyperventilate his body just surrendered and started to shut down, the stress was too much on top of everything else. The threat of losing consciousness fueled the panic in his mind as well as his body's need to get rest.

He fell back into a deep blackness.

 

The moment he lost consciousness in the plant, he regained self awareness in another reality.

Gasping, his mind returned to Baker Street.

The change of scenery was more than a shock and he didn't know what had just happened.

How did he get here?

Was he in his mind palace now?

Had his mind - in a try to protect himself from rupturing -  put him in a safe environment?

"Sherlock?"

John.

He sounded quite distressed.

Why was John there?

"Mary?" John yelled. "Mary, I need help!"

But that was the last Sherlock knew because a moment later his body finally decided it needed to force a break and switched him off.

He lost consciousness before he had a chance to even try to understand what was happening.

 

 


	57. Sunday - early hours of the morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to find out what happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.  
> .  
>  Thank you, everyone who took their time to read, to give kudos and gave me feedback, you're great!

 

 

"Are you cold?" John asked the shivering Sherlock.

"Yes, in fact I am… It's sleeting," Sherlock admitted.

John looked at him closer, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

Had Sherlock taken something?

He _really_ looked like about to keel over.

Then Sherlock's mouth slowly opened again, as if he was about to say something else, but instead he just breathed, like someone who is stunned by something sudden.

With a frown the doctor tried to inspect Sherlock's eyes in the dim light, they were blindly staring ahead now.

"Sherlock?"

His former flatmate didn't react.

"Hey, are you with me?" John stepped closer, eying Sherlock intensely.

But the other man just continued to tremble as more and more colour drained from his face.

The doctor was actually afraid he might pass out any moment and he mentally prepared that it might happen, that he'd need to manhandle the other man into a chair.

He reached for the nearest one and dragged it closer, without looking away from the detective.

What could cause such a reaction?

The other man still appeared to be frozen mid sentence, not blinking and probably not seeing, his breathing was speeding up now.

That was when John finally realised chances were high that this was not a drug reaction but a flashback.

He mentally kicked himself for being so stupid. Surely he had experienced this more times than he wanted to remember, but from the inside, he rarely had witnessed it when it happened to others.

Very careful, he reached for Sherlock's wrist.

"Sherlock?"

Being remembered that touches might have more severe consequences - depending on what Sherlock was reliving - he moved very slowly.

"Sherlock, I'm gonna touch you," he said in a loud and clear voice.

With only two fingertips he felt for Sherlock's pulse.

It was beating like mad.

Not good.

"Easy, come back to me… Come on… We are safe... at home... and we're fine."

A moment later Sherlock's breathing became more stuttering, he showed more and more signs of severe distress.

This was _so_ not good.

"Sherlock, come back to me. Come on. This is the kitchen in Baker Street and you're okay. Don't go there," John tried to stimuli Sherlock's hearing and this way offer him a path out of his memories.

He remembered how he had struggled with the flashbacks after being shot, how they had devastated him. To be thrown back into a battle situation without warning had been one of the most unnerving things he had lived through, worse than the panic attacks or the depression.

When Sherlock swayed dangerously the doctor decided to take action.

He didn't hesitate to touch him any longer since Sherlock had not reacted badly to his minute first touch before, so he slowly moved the chair behind the other man and then pushed him gently down into it.

Sherlock stiffly followed the movement, at least until he came to rest at the seat, then he suddenly started to flail.

John had expected chances were high the detective might come out of this in distress and therefore had been attentive and ready to jump either to aid or into cover.       

Out of some horrifying desperation Sherlock started winding and made small noises of pain, obviously not aware of his surroundings.

"Sherlock, come back to me."

The doctor stepped forward, Sherlock was about to fall out of the chair any moment.

When he touched him in order to try to prevent Sherlock's fall, he became a lot more agitated and panicked.

John was barely able to hold the hyperventilating and struggling figure.

"Hey, Sherlock?"

Then the detective's eyes suddenly jerked open and he drew a deep ragged breath.

There was utter astounding and panic in Sherlock's eyes.

But his awareness only lasted a second, because the next moment, Sherlock listed forward and then fell.

Clumsily, John managed to slow down his fall, but ended up half crouched and with a heavy dead weight leaning against him.

"Mary?" John yelled. "Mary, I need help!"

Sherlock became even heavier.

It was quite a struggle to hold onto the limp man and keep him from hitting his head on the way down.

Seconds later his future wife came running down the stairs and entered the kitchen, she had clearly been asleep.

"Huh? What happened?"

"I don't know, possible flashback," John grunted under the weight.

Mary came to his help and braced Sherlock's head and neck while they carefully lowered him to the kitchen floor and turned him on his back.

"Get my bag. Turn on all lights. I need light."

She hit the light switches on her way to the wardrobe while John started to examine Sherlock.

It turned out he was completely unresponsive. Pulse slower than before at least.

John opened the dressing gown and cursed when it turned out to be impossible to bare Sherlock's arms.

"Help me get this off," he asked when Mary returned with the large medical bag.

They turned the unconscious man to the side and freed him from the dressing gown, which was not an easy task.

John cursed once more, had Sherlock been any other patient or in severe danger the former army surgeon would by now have cut away the fabrics.

But he found he couldn't, not _that_ dressing grown.

As expected the shirt was even more of a problem, but it was just a shirt  and John finally  reached for the trauma shears, cutting away the first sleeve, he needed to get a PB reading and search for needle marks.

"Ta. Check pupil reaction and take BP," he ordered and handed her the emergency cutting tool.

Meanwhile Mary had made an improvised pillow from the gown and lifted Sherlock's head onto is. Then she clipped a pulse-oximeter to Sherlock's middle finger.

Anxiously, John started minutely inspecting Sherlock's left arm, fearing to find something.

But there was nothing.

"You think he injected something?" Mary asked, she had switched into emergency mode as fast as he had, all traces of sleep gone.

"It was clearly a danger night, and he came back and behaved… odd. Also, he vanished into the bathroom and didn't insist that he was clean. I'm sure he's capable of other ways of using than via needle."

"You searched his room earlier, didn't you?"

"Yes, nothing."

"Eh, John?" Mary had just cut open the other sleeve.

"There is something here."

John leaned over Sherlock to see what Mary had found, expecting to see a tiny needle mark,  instead, the insides of Sherlock's elbow pit was covered with a large bulky ball of  gauze, held in place by medical tape.

Mary peeled away the bandage and winced, a blue and red bruise was forming around a quite prominent puncture mark.

"Oh, shit, Sherlock!" John ranted. 

"John!" Mary seemed a bit scandalised, "You don't really think this was caused because he took drugs?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I think!"

"Highly unlikely."

"What?"

"John, don't jump to conclusions, first take the time to really _look_ at it… That must have been what? A gauche 16 or 17 ?… No one in his right mind would use a needle that size for drugs, far too imprecise."

"Except you are in a hurry and it's the only one that's available."

"From what you've told me, this is not like him. This is clumsy and dowdy, it's _not_ like him. If he once was a user he'd know how to prevent this, he'd also use a site that wouldn't be this easy to spot… and he wouldn't bandage it like _this_."

The doctor then stepped over to Mary's side and leaned down to really see the mark up close.

"You're right…" John inspected the crook with his penlight. "This was made by another person, but that does not automatically mean he didn't take anything. I mean, this whole week screams danger night. He did behave strangely when he arrived and he was away far longer than expected."

"Well…."

"Can you check the bathroom for me, look for pills, vials, syringes… he was in there right before this happened... and bring some blankets," John looked at the small monitor, pulse and oxygen saturation were still not looking good, but a bit better than before.

He lifted Sherlock's eyelids and checked pupil reaction again, then shoved the trousers' legs up to inspect his legs for more puncture wounds.

Nothing.

He bared his feet, also okay.

Mary passed him on her way to the bathroom.

"You think it was a flashback," it was a statement, not a question.

"Probably."

"Should we lift him into his bed?"

"I'm not sure we can manage, besides, we camped at his floor more than one night, I'm sure he'd be okay there again. If this was not a flashback then I will consider bringing him to a hospital," John reached for the stethoscope and started listening to Sherlock's body.

After he was finished he gently lifted one of Sherlock's knees, rearranged his arms and rolled him into the recovery position.

Sherlock had been breathing fine, but he wanted to make sure it remained that way.

"What trigged it?" Mary asked from inside the bathroom.

"I don't know, he was talking about the freezing rain… then he just… went rigid. When he came back he was struggling. We better be prepare that he might be not amused when he regains consciousness."

John heard his phone ring and fetched it.

Who would call at this hour?

But before he picked up he knew who it was.

"Mycroft."

"What happened?" the older Holmes said at the other end of the line.

"I assume you are watching us right now?"

"Obviously. Please don't remove it. My brother?"

"He had quite an intense flashback and also neither ate nor slept, but we'll take care. He'll be fine."

"No drugs then?"

"Why….?"

"He was seen talking to some _low lifes_."

"Yes, he was working on the case. No drugs, searched his room earlier."

"Take a blood sample to make sure, please."

"Okay. Anything else?"

"No,  good night," Mycroft hung up.

"His brother?" Mary peeked out of the bathroom door.

"Yes. Who else, he's watching us."

"We should search our room," Mary said with wide eyes and blushed a bit, obviously fearing for their privacy.

"No need. I did it and he said there weren't any - and Sherlock said there weren't any."

"Er, okay… Why did you lie to him? I mean you were not at all convinced he hasn't taken anything a minute ago."

"Still not convinced, but Mycroft doesn't need to know this, at least not yet."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a bit insecure about the last chapter, concerning the flashback.   
> I wanted it to be a bit confusing, to underline how the realities Sherlock experiences are mixing and bleeding into each other. Since flashbacks feel like they are real I thought it was right to just switch into the memory, but I really don't know if it was understandable to read or if I should put those in italics or mark flashbacks in * or whatever.


	58. Unknown Place, Unknown Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is out but that doesn't mean his mind is out, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made.  
> I am really glad Mr. Moffat and Mr. Gatiss created and own them, and that they made this terrific show. Thank you so much!

 

**Unknown date, unknown place**

Sherlock hovered somewhere between sleep and half awareness for a long long time.

He surfaced now and then, just enough to be distantly aware of the passing of time.

Finally, after what felt like days, the fact that he was in some kind of a drifting state became dimly aware to him.

He subconsciously knew he didn't like it.

Then distant howling of wind registered some time later and it was also quite unsettling.

Unlike sleep, which was dark red and warm, this felt pale grey green and tasted like musty silver and dangerous.

His mind struggled to raise into a state of higher alertness, and when it finally came the unexpected cold hit him with an unexpected brutal intensity that reached deep down into his core.

He felt wounded by it.

Something deep inside was shocked beyond words, though he wasn't sure what it really was, he just felt damaged.

His body seemed to be absent, or at least any perception from it was.

The cold was everywhere, his tries to shove it away or ignore it became harder and harder to accomplish.

When suddenly bubbling voices entered the empty space surrounding him, he was alarmed by their presence.

Why were they there, and where was here?

He couldn't even make out the words or the language.

Not only his body struggled to function, his mind was slow, too.

He felt misted and out of his normal thought patterns.

Indecisive of what to do or if orientation would return at all, he just waited for what might happen next.

For long moments or hours he just existed, in an awful, clueless half-awareness, it was pure disorientation and emptiness.

A rolling movement in his mind, and suddenly his body returned, the intense sensation made him flinch and then - surprisingly painful - touch followed.

It was a cold contact, a body wide one, he felt a scratchy fabric on his bare skin.

At first only on the left side of his chest and his upper arm of the same side, then the sensation travelled down his side and along the outside of his thigh.

It was not only itchy, but also made of stinging cold… and somewhat sticky.

He was aware he didn't like it.

Then, with a rush that expanded over his whole body, made him realise having skin was very inconvenient.

The nuisance intensified, became more and more intensive. Finally, it caused panic when the sensation turned into a slight pain, but then became intense agony.

Then he remembered.

He was in an old plant.

There had been a campfire in the distance, inside the building.

 _Someone_ had been there.

He was in danger.

He needed to open his eyes!

Additional horror gripped him when he felt something moving around him, his surroundings tightened up.

He _had_ a body but it was not following any of his commands, not even his stupid eyelids.

There was somebody else there - nearby in fact!

Now, he remembered something had been poured down his throat, somebody had manhandled his transport. He had been at the mercy of another person, and was still absolutely defenceless, still not able to move.

He had his transport back, but sensation of what was, was all.

First he had almost drowned and then barely managed to find shelter, obviously he had slipped from crisis to crisis. Now, he was literally in the hands of someone else, someone who he had only felt, but not seen yet.

The person was directly next to him, and the mere thought of someone this near that was not John gave him horripilation. No one had the right to get into his personal space.

He tried, tried really hard, to speak, to move, to do anything at all, but all that happened was that his breathing grew shallow and fast, and he grunted with the effort.

Finally his eyes opened a small slit and he squinted against dim light that nevertheless felt harsh.

"You're so cold," a hoarse voice told him and ice cold hands were on him, he didn't know where they touched him, just that they did.

The urge to scream and wind out of the stranger's grip was overwhelming.

The sleeping bag tightened around him.

"We need to keep you warm, don't shove it away."

What language was that?

He was at the mercy of that person, not even able to turn his head either at his torturer or his saviour, whatever the man was.

Panic accompanied him into darkness once more.

.

When he woke the next time he remembered where he was rather quickly, felt the stranger nearby after a few breaths. Further away than last time, but still much too close for his liking.

He still could barely move, and then he was shifted a little by firm arms. He sank back into the warmth of the forced position that might be described as a very loose half sitting embrace, the grip was probably meant to be assuring and keep them both warm, but actually did the opposite of comforting him.

At least he was wrapped tightly in dry fabrics, but it only took moments for more unpleasant feelings to creep into him, time ceased to have meaning again. It just was.

He was alive and life was hell.

He could feel the other man's stinky breath and wished he'd black out again, anything, just not experiencing this any longer would be nice.

There was nothing but fear and desperation.

When rough hands returned and bent his head back, helplessness exploded, he trembled intensely and was paralysed by his weakness.

"It's cold outside, you'll freeze to death, I just try to keep you alive."

He must have fought the stranger, then, otherwise he wouldn't say such things.

"Your only chance of survival is to stay warm in here, stay out of the weather. I don't have much, but we can manage. I'll help you. Don't struggle, brother."

For the fraction of an insane second he wondered if the stranger was his pursuer who had managed to find him and was now waiting for him to wake up fully before killing him, to heighten the delight about the success to have overpowered him. Moriarty would have been pleased about prolonging the suffering like this.

Right, he needed to get away, Moriarty's man or not, he couldn't do this, hanging around, he needed a bolt whole to gather some strength.

Being incarcerated in his panicking mind - his body not listening to his commands, the weakness too profound - confronted him with unexpected horrors.

In disbelief he realised this was how he _was_ , horrified. Instead of managing to become accustomed to the situation and make the best of it he was unable to function.

In general he had always thought he was able to endure much, but vulnerability was his breaking point - was that even the right word? 

 _Something_ else started _somewhere_ now, that hadn't been there before, a sensation.

It took quite some time until he found out it must be a fever.

While planning the Fall and the following mission he had tried to embrace the possibility of losing his own life during this operation, as long as it served to safe John and his friends he had been okay with it. He theoretically knew the process of dying might confront a person with the ugliest and most disturbing feelings that existed –

So why was he struck so hard by this now?

Why wasn't he able to handle this better?

He felt a desperate wave of anger wash over him, at his useless limp body and the world in general, and his weakness especially. It was disgusting, and it was getting worse instead of better.

.

He must have drifted off again, because when he resurfaced later he was able to open his eyes. The fire had moved a lot closer to him but was burned down to a gleaming pile of red coals in the dark.

He opened his senses wide but wasn't able to spot anyone nearby.

With the aim to sit up he carefully tried to stretch, only to realise that the bedroll was unnaturally tight around him.

He felt caged, is took quite some moments for him to understand that someone had intentionally wrapped it around him and placed many other fabrics on top of him. It had helped, he had indeed warmed up, but in his weakened state it was some work to shove them away. He fought for several minutes to get free, but found he was barely moving on the outside.

Very unsettling, being ataxic.  

When he had finally emerged from the sleeping bag he saw someone had messily dressed him, his clothes must have dried. Uneasiness rose when he though of the stranger having invaded his privacy like this, but also a touch of gratefulness that he couldn't remember it and that the man had not run off with his warm trousers and fine cotton long sleeve undershirt.

His jacket was missing, though.

He was alone and it was cold without the covers. A second sleeping place was on the other side of the fire, no one nearby.

The urge to hide grew stronger.

A distant voice in his mind - it sounded suspiciously like John - told him in a whisper that the other man had probably saved his life. Chances were high he was just a tramp with a big heart, who had shared his supplies with him and therefore deserved gratitude, and that he wasn't out of the woods yet and would do best to stay put.

Sherlock wrapped the sleeping bag around his shoulders and tried to stand up. When his knee made hard contact with the dirty concrete due to his lack of balance he proceeded with more caution. Nevertheless he almost fell over his shoes, they were still wet.

It seemed to be dawning, must be the early hours of the morning.

He roamed the building for a while but the urge to hide and gather strength _alone_ grew more intense the weaker he felt.

He decided _up_ would be a good choice and dragged himself up the long derelict stairs into the roof level, which was actually more of an inside balcony around the main hall of the building with small rooms to the sides.

He needed to take a look outside, ascertain the area.

But before he reached one of the roof-windows he was confronted with a large whole in the flooring and was forced to get over to the other side of the roof to get to another window. Some of the floorboards looked suspiciously unstable and he proceeded with caution.

On the way he found several dark alcoves filled with waste and half decayed wooden doors.

To his disappointment the view out of the window only presented high trees that blocked the view, not worth the effort.

On his way back to the stairs his strength left him and he was forced to sit down, he was asleep on the ground before he had time to think about how stupid this was.

.

Some time later _something_ woke him, he blinked and it took several long moments before he remembered where he was and why.

At first, he didn't move. He felt hot and cold at the same time, was trembling and didn't know what had woken him until a strange gurgling sound came from the ground level.

Had the stranger returned?

He wasn't in the mood to see anyone, yet. He needed solitude to concentrate on making plans how to get out of this forsaken place.

The urge to hide grew stronger.

His eyelids struggled open again, and when he finally managed he sucked in air in surprise. There was John, down on his haunches in his direct line of sight, clad in his army jacket.

Great, now he was starting to hallucinate.

He was just lying there and staring at the figure of his flatmate. He wished the other man was here - more than anything.

The doctor's jacket was absolutely not the right choice for this weather, Mrs Hudson would complain.

He gulped down a wave of nostalgia, thinking of this landlady and the day when John had stormed off because he had behaved socially incorrect.

"You need to let him help," John said, in a tone he usually used to explain those social things any other person seemed to know without being told.

He felt light headed and sick.

"Hey, could you actually listen?" John snapped his fingers in front of his face.

"He touches me… I can't stand it... I need to get away… I don't want him to touch me," Sherlock's voice was only a whisper, he wasn't even sure he had spoken out loud.

"Touch luck. It's not that he's touching you inappropriately. He's taking care of you, that usually involves touch. You left me behind, it's your own fault. I might be here to help you, if you didn't make me stay behind like a dumb sidekick."

Sherlock felt his desperation grow. John sounded angry.

"You won't survive without help. Get over your dammed pride. Suck it up and face it. You _need_ help!"

This was not about pride, but John wouldn't know that, right?

Then, suddenly, while still trying to figure out if John was just trying to get him moving with exaggerated words or actually meant it, Sherlock felt something creep through the large building, he wasn't sure what it was at first.

Maybe a smell?

But it was so faint he couldn't even tell if it was a smell or just the wind.

Whatever it was, it felt not nice, something was alarming.

"Sherlock, you are sick…"

Sherlock didn't look at John, why watch something that was generated by his muddled mind?

Probably, it was just his fever getting worse.

Another noise from downstairs made him flinch, it sounded eerie… since when did he use such words to describe things?

Ridiculous!

"What are you doing?"

When he looked up again John was wearing the jacket he had worn at the pool, the one with the bomb vest under it, at least that one was warmer.

But the mere presence of that piece of clothing made Sherlock frown, his sense of danger shifted up a gear.

Very carefully, and as silent as possible, he crawled back the few metres to the alcoves and wound himself into a pile of surprisingly soft dirt - more rotting rough fabrics.

He had to bite his lips to prevent coughing.

The imaginary doctor stood outside the niche and frowned, but said nothing. Sherlock dragged the rotten door shut and listened, making sure it made no noise.

Only three minutes later a loud crashing sound made him jerk and gasp for air in panic about the sheer loudness and the unfamiliar suddenness of the disturbance of silence.

But the real distress started when he heard someone curse a moment later.

Someone was there!

Someone angry.

Dizziness assailed him and his limbs felt even more leaden than moments before, too heavy to move another centimetre.

His heartbeat was so intense it hurt, but simultaneously numbness chained him to the ground, his chest was so tight it was hard work to draw in silent shallow breaths.

Unable to move, his body frozen in terror and fever, he tried to concentrate on staying awake and listen to what was happening.

But only minutes later he lost the fight, the insistent tiredness pulled him under, despite the fact that he was sure that only staying ready to fight would save his life.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A great 'thank you' to every kind soul out there who was so nice to give me kudos and / or write a comment, hearing what you think means a lot to me!   
> Thank you! :)


	59. Unknown Date, Unknown Place 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made.

 

 

**Unknown date, unknown place**

He was padded at the cheek - quite painful, someone was not fond of him - but he couldn't manage to open his eyes, not even move away from the _unfond_ touch. "Come on, wake up."

More tapping.

Sherlock sucked in air in surprise.

And suddenly the control over his limbs was back, he needed a moment to actually realise they _were_ responding.

His hands flailed aimlessly through the air, then one made contact with a painfully solid edge and the other was caught by something warm.

Only moments after he had rediscovered freedom of action it was taken away again… but now he was immobilised by warm foreign hands instead of his own weakness.

Had his pursuer finally found him?

He felt the weariness swapping over from his body into his mind, infected him with the idea to just give up, just give in, let them kill him, it would mean the end of all this suffering.

So easy, get it all over with.

Several hands pressed his arms into a hard surface.

"Come on, don't do this."

The voice was familiar but his panic floored any ambition to find out why... he struggled to get free and the sound level around him rose significantly.

Then hands grabbed his head, holding his face. He felt hot palms at his jaws and fingers behind his ears and at his cheeks.

"Oi! Sherlock! Look at me!"

John!

His voice was loud and very firm.

John was there…

Since when could hallucinations touch him? But if he imagined a person he'd probably also hallucinate their touch.

After what felt like minutes he finally succeeded in forcing his eyes open and the doctor's face was hovering above. A red aura surrounded him and he seemed worried, but overall he seemed fine and alive - and currently not wearing the jacket with the bomb vest.

In fact he was not wearing any jacket, just that odd thin cardigan.

With a gasp he found he was in a semi-dark 221b kitchen, which disoriented him even more. Was he now even fabricating his surroundings?

Was he in his Mind palace again?

"Hey, can you hear me? Are you with me?"

Sherlock just stared up at the imaginary doctor, frozen in not-understanding.

Then his transport decided once more it was all too exhausting.

Trembling from fatigue he allowed his head to sink back against the floor and when he let his arms go slack the grip around them lessened slightly.

"Look at me."

He met John's gaze and the other man had an odd expression on his face.

Was he sorry for something?

Definitely, that aspect he was able to recognise, but the other one…

"You're with me? You were dreaming or reliving a memory, can you remember what it was?"

What was he talking about?

Then he saw someone else… they were not alone.

He blinked.

Mary…

The fact that _this_ therefore was reality hit him like a punch in the face. He fought for air once more when his universe shifted into place with a painful mental iron jolt.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

A thumb moved over his cheek, prompting him to pay attention.

Sherlock nodded.

He was safe.

… and felt he had a splitting headache.

His jaw was clenched with the intensity of what he had just lived through.

Keeping his horror in check was difficult.

"You need to be honest with me, Sherlock! Did you take something?"

He continued to concentrate on breathing, it was hard.

It took a moment until the meaning of the question sank in, before Sherlock managed to remember what exactly had happened today and why he was on his kitchen floor.

Today was so unbelievably long ago.

But John was not that patient.

The pressure on his skull intensified and Sherlock wondered why John was still clinging to his head. He made a feeble attempt to free himself from the grip, but was not released, as he had expected.

"Come on, you need to stay with me. What drug did you take, Sherlock? Answer me, for god's sake."

"John, hey, calm down," Mary was the one holding one of his wrists and the other elbow.

"Nothing, let me go," Sherlock's voice was hoarse and rough, the words slightly slurred.

He suddenly realised it was anger John broadcasted - although his touch was not angry, just immobilising. And he himself felt some resentment now too, for being doubted, but only for a very brief moment, until he remembered he had indeed brought drugs home and the first emotion was replaced by guilt.

"Sherlock, what did you take? Come one, be honest with me."

"Nothing. I need… let me go. I feel sick."

Only after he had said it, he realised how very nauseous he was. His speech center seemed to be connected to his body, bypassing his brain.

Being held down woke new terror and carefully buried memories.

"Then where's that coming from?" John let finally go of his skull and not too gently took Sherlock's left arm out of his fiancée's grip and moved his elbow pit into view.

He winced; Molly was more skilled with corpses than with _living_ tissue.

"Blood donation," he managed.

"Oh, you made someone else do it after I refused?" Mary chimed in a tone that - according to Sherlock's point of view - was not fitting the situation at all.

"What?" John spit, staring at his future wife for a change now.

"Calm down, John. He said he needed half a litre of blood for an experiment and asked me to take it. I said it was too much in his state and only took a few millilitres. He must have asked someone else then," Mary briefly explained what had happened and let go of him.

"Why should I believe that? He could have asked to…"

"Ask Molly… 's in the fridge," Sherlock murmured and rolled onto his side. The dim light above him was getting on his nerves.

John finally allowed the movement but kept a hand on his shoulder, held him in place.

It was odd, this contact.

For a brief moment it felt safe, protected, held together, before it returned to be a nuisance and made him fight against his instinct to blindly lash out.

He barely heard the next words over the struggle to keep his impulses in check.

"He put something in the fridge earlier, check it out," John asked Mary and she stood up.

Sherlock tried to sit up, but instead of allowing it John tightened his grip.

He only now realised his chest was bare and the touch of John's hand produced a new wave of hot panic rush over him.

"Stay put. Settle down."

"John, please, let me get up."

The doctor had no trouble restraining his weak movements.

This was _John_ , he tried to remind himself, it was okay to be touched by John. Only this one person was allowed to do so, but his mind's logic failed to convince the aspect that was firing waves of trepidation into his consciousness.

"Easy. You're safe… Do you understand me? You can't get up already, you just collapsed and I need to know you are clean."

"Let me go…" Sherlock pleaded, becoming more and more desperate, though some different argumentative voice told him that the more agitated he appeared the smaller the chances his former flatmate would let go.

"Tell me where you've just been, what did you remember?" John urged him, pulling a blanket over his torso.

It felt bad. His skin didn't like it. Where did it came from? How long had he been out? What had really happened? Why was this so agonising? Why didn't they leave him alone?

"Darling, may I remind you how eager _you_ are talking about flashbacks right after you resurfaced? You might want to give him some space," Mary was rummaging in the fridge now.

But Sherlock needed to figure this out for himself, too.

What had happened after he had hidden in the roof niche?

The only way to find out was he needed to go back there and see, because his mind didn't seem eager to recall the events from here.

When he tried to push it he only found only blank spaces in his memories.

He needed to go back...

Better do it now while the situation was… fresh.

He relaxed and tried to concentrate.

Then he let his eyes fall shut again and tried to blend out reality, John's careful but firm immobilisation actually helped to kick him right back into the past.

The feeling of being held down was unsettling and his freezing did the rest to bring back the sensations that were hiding behind a brittle barrier in a not too far away corner of his mind. He felt he was starting to shake with reaction once more.

When the surrounding of the ruinous building rushed back into his reality immediately - and with full force - he flinched.

It was much more intense than he had expected.

He was not ready to tell John how dreadful the fact of being literally in the hands and at the mercy of a stranger had been, or even talk about _anything_ that had to do with his soul or state of mind, especially not while Mary was listening.

He was limp, boneless, hidden away inside a heap of rubble in a plant in the middle of nowhere.

Through the staved wooden door he could see a part of the mouldered stairs in the distance, those that led down to the ground level of the plant.

He blinked to clear his distorted vision.

Carefully, he wound out of his tight and dirty bolthole, it took quite some time.

In disbelieve he stared at his footprints and the stirred dust on the ground, he groaned inwardly.

Not the brightest idea to leave hints like that before hiding, but he had a high fever… stupid nevertheless.

"Shit, he's slipping back into… Dammit, Sherlock, don't do this! Stay with me," a yelling voice whispered in the distance.

But Sherlock ignored him, turned down his perception of hearing reality as far as he dared, he needed to know what had happened without any disturbance.

Now, he was aware that he was wandering in a memory. If he wanted to, he could just open his eyes and see John and Mary, could turn up his hearing and listen to them. This was like using a normal memory, just a lot more intense… and not knowing the output, which was odd. But less unsettling, safe - a bit at least - like having an anchor to a safe environment.

It had been horrible to feel the weakness weighting down his limbs, he remembered that he had been aware that he needed to get somewhere safe to gather some strength.

He realised the fever had risen and that the homeless man might be his last chance to survive, he should go downstairs and talk to him.

It was as if he was an observer in his own body, but at the same time had the impression he was making decisions right now.

"Hello?" he called hoarsely, through lips that felt thick and stiff, but his voice was almost not present, it was barely a whisper. He didn't try again.

Carefully, one step at a time, he descended down the rotting stairs on shaky legs.

Some difficult smell was gaining intensity.

It took quite some time to make his way down.

But what he saw when he neared the last seven steps from the bottom made him frown, several steps had collapsed.

It was quite messy, this had not been there when he had made his way up. Someone must have stepped onto it and then it had given way on the fourth or fifth steps, which had taken the one's beyond it down with the person.

Had the homeless man searched for him and destroyed it thereby?

Was that the noise he had heard, had the man fallen?

There had been cursing.

Had he himself lost so much weight that he had been able to step on that fragile wood without damaging it?

Sherlock avoided the broken wood by stepping on the metal base of the banister and headed slowly back to the fireplace, it was a bit of a balancing act.

Uh, the smell was getting worse.

A figure lay on the ground by the fire and some daft aspect of Sherlock was glad he wasn't all alone.

He cleared his throat to make himself heard and not startle the man but there was no reaction, so he tried to speak.

"Hello?"

No reaction.

Had he been hurt in the plunge?

The man was wearing Sherlock's high tech slender winter jacket and his woollen hat.

Only fair, he had allowed Sherlock to use his bedroll.

When he finally rounded the stranger an ominous feeling had started in the area of his epigastrium.

He tipped the lifeless figure at the shoulder when the smell hit him full force.

His stomach turned and he knew what he'd find before he could see it.

Blood.

He stepped around the heap of person.

A large pool of it on the ground under and around the man's front.

When he turned him and the man's head rolled back it revealed a brutally cut throat, very deep and messy.

The sight of the large wound burned into his memory and he suddenly felt his blood pressure fall significantly, nausea accompanied the uncomfortable sensation, though it all was very distant, like behind a veil.

He fell to his knees, gasping in horror and distress. Then, like an echo, the nausea returned and he threw up bile into the dirt.

What stunned him the most was his body's reaction. He had seen cut throats before, had seen beheaded copses… handled heads who's bodies were missing without any problems - things that were considered far worse than this.

Why was _this_ giving him so much distress?

He had recoiled a few steps but was still on all fours, then he ducked away, more in reflex than with a decision, crouched down behind some rubble.

Was the killer still here?

Adrenaline kicked in viciously.

"Sherlock!"

He is slapped again and it reminded him that he could just get out of his mind! Use the easy way out, he had almost forgotten.

Does he _want_ to get out?

But the decision was made without his consent and he resurfaces violently, it feels like being cut off in mid-scream.

His eyes are wide open for a second, while he fights his way back into reality.

"Don't try to do anything, just breathe," John advises, holding onto his upper arms once more, he is in a half sitting, curled up position.

His face crumples in desperation and pain, as his body sags backwards - like all strings cut - all fight leaves him, relief making him weak.

Someone catches him.

John.

He's fighting for control over himself.

Someone is speaking in an agitated voice.

He can't answer, feeling suddenly even more drained.

Dimly aware, he senses he is still on the blanket, on the ground, in the kitchen.

Someone touches his neck, holds his shoulders.

He fights the hands and rolls onto his side, trying to battle the touches away.

Why couldn't they leave him alone?

The memories of how he had fought to return to John, and how he had clung to life, and the thought that he needed to survive to get back to London, they seemed to taunt him now. He wished he had died back then and not lived through _this_.

The homeless man had been slain by the chaser he had barely managed to escape from by jumping into the river. He must have followed him and found their camp.

Had he slain his saviour because he thought it was him?

Very unlikely.

Or because he was frustrated about not finding him?

Probably.

It seemed the broken stairs had saved his life, assured Moriarty's man - who was quite a bulldog he remembered now clearly - that he couldn't be up on the second level because the steps wouldn't have carried him.

Luck, dumb luck, had saved him.

It was a concept he had severe difficulties to grasp, it left him aghast.

So… uncontrollable.

Being out of control was the most horrible thing that existed.

He _should_ be dead.

Someone was still taking hold of him and it was getting far too much.

He tried to roll to his stomach once more to get better leverage.

He _needed_ to get up and away.

They needed to leave his presence, he needed to be alone. But the most urgent: he didn't want to be seen by Mary, he felt his privacy invaded by her presence for the first time.

Alone protected him.

The hopes he had had, when he planned his faked death, and what he had aimed for that night when he had said those words to John, mocked him - and that was when something boiled over somewhere in a deep cavern of his mind.

Once more he felt paralysed, this time by the intensity of his emotions.  

His face was buried in the messed up blankets and he felt his hands were gripping the soft fabric desperately, as if they were operating on their own.

"Stop it," he moaned.

He couldn't even move when a touch returned to his shoulder, couldn't hear what was said.

Something hot and wet was on his temple.

Enough of being seen in his anguish and of being pitied.

Someone tried to roll him back into a supine position and at first his body followed, until the eruption that boiled over in another orange black wave expanded from his mind to his body.

He violently flinched away from the physical contact and finally managed to roll over, hid his face and managed to get on his hands and knees, the adrenaline from moments before still in his system.

"Shit, sorry…?"

"No!… Go away!" he realised he was screaming, with all his frustrations and anger at the world, all the misery present in his voice.

If he was going to have a meltdown - which had probably already started, if his shaky hands were any indication, so he knew it was a distinct possibility - he'd rather endure it alone, away from anybody's sympathetic looks.

His senses grew more and more agitated and were heading into an overload. He clenched his teeth.

"It's okay, I'm sorry… Calm down."

"NO! GO away!"

"Sherlock, it's totally normal to feel…"

"I don't want to feel any longer, go away!"

John didn't move, Mary was nowhere to be seen.

He managed to stagger to his feet and with the aid of the wall stumbled into his room.

"Stay were you are!" he yelled, when he heard movement behind him.

"Alright, just calm down… It's all okay, whatever you need," John said, not moving, but probably staring at his back.

Sherlock was glad it was dark because he felt his face was wet with more desperation and disgust.

He kicked the door shut, then locked it with shaking hands.

The heap of blankets on the floor another reminder of his weaknesses.

He headed for the bed, but the adrenaline that had sustained his escape drained away abruptly, leaving him dizzy.

Before he was able to reach the bed his knees gave way and he sagged to the floor in front of it, merely successful slowing down the fall by holding onto the mattress.

Silently he allowed the dam to give way and a storm of unknown hideous emotions washed over him, accompanied by intense nausea.

He surrendered, the only thing he could do was ignoring them, not knowing or understanding what was happening.

He retreated into a black tight safe space in his mind palace, he had found as a child, even before he started to discover his mind palace.

With a courage born out of desperation he dragged his mind to a meditative state that was close to sleep, but where he remained in control.

Only then, he let his body deal with the storm. If it wanted to throw a tantrum it was on his own, he wouldn't reward such allures with his presence.

The sentiment rocking his body was obnoxious and hard to ignore but after a few tries he managed to push away sensing it.

Much later, he fell into an exhausted deep sleep, another decision his body made without him.

.

Hours later when he resurfaced again, his mouth was parched and his mind dizzy.

He climbed into his bed, huddled into a large pile of warm blankets and thought about the memories he had found.

Swallowing was a struggle and he had an immense headache.

Ignore transport.

Sherlock remembered what he had forgotten, suppressed memories then. He was also aware that at one point he had realised that he was missing the memory of how he had escaped, but had no time to care about it back then. He had just assumed he had deleted them.

But now they were back.

He could analyse them - maybe that would make them less awful.

After he had made sure he was alone with the tramp's dead body Sherlock sorted through the man's meagre belongings and his own few water-damaged goods that were spilled around the cold campfire.

He covered the body, packed some things into the man's old army backpack and then waited until noon before he headed out. He hoped that if someone was waiting for him out there, he'd think he'd leave in the dark of the night.

He walked through the wilderness for two days, seeing no one.

His condition made him slow, as did the fact that he was overly careful, moved as silent as possible, walked on socks through the under wood, did not sleep.

Finally, he reached a small village with a port and hid aboard an old sailboat, on which he also spent the night.

The following evening he took a taxi to the next bigger town, spending the last few Russian roubles he had. From there he called Mycroft, barely able to speak.

The memories were very misty, like having done it all under the influence of drugs… or in a dream. His brother had provided transport to a safer location, a hotel room, medical supplies and a new mobile phone.

Sherlock was forced to pause for two weeks to recuperate and gather some strength, and to battle the beginning pneumonia before it incapacitated him even more.

He didn't leave the hotel even once.

Now - in hindsight - he understood he owed the homeless man quite a lot, his life… and his life again a few days later.

He had no idea how long the man had taken care of him, and what his name was.

Probably his body was still rotting in that hall.

It made some aspect of him anxious and another one swabbed him with sudden… was it grief?… or guilt?

Probably both.

When were those sentiments about to leave him alone?

He just wanted rest and peace.

Where had the backpack gone?

Had there been anything in there that could be used to identify the man?

It took some time, but finally he managed to slip back into sleep.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here is a very long chapter, because I didn't want to leave you hanging with another cliffhanger. Although this doesn't mean there won't be any later on.   
> This was hard for me to write and I hope you like it.


	60. Sunday, early hours of the morning.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is trying to work out how to help his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made.  
> I am really glad Mr. Moffat and Mr. Gatiss created and own them, and that they made this terrific show. Thank you so much!

 

**Sunday, early hours of the morning.**

"Gosh, what did just happen?" Mary asked, running back down from upstairs with the things John had requested. She had heard Sherlock scream and therefore hurried downstairs again.

Her future husband was sitting on the ground a defeated look on his face. He leaned against the counter, a crumpled blanket was next to him and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

"I don't know, you saw him slip back into the memory, but it seemed a bit more superficial than the times before… When you went upstairs to search the grain cushion… a few moments after you left he started to heave. I tried to get his mind out of... wherever he was."

John rubbed his eyes with his right hand.

"He resurfaced and coiled up - almost violently - then suddenly went limb like a rag doll, but… then he started to tense up again, at first I feared he was having a seizure or something. He clung to the blanket as if it was a lifeline. Then… he managed to get up and escaped into his room, yelling at me not to follow."

"Yeah, the volume must have been high enough even the residents five houses down must have heard."

John stood up and reached for his phone, Mary noticed he looked pallid and tired. With effort, the doctor stood up, went to the living room and switched on the telly.

He didn't want Sherlock to overhear the call he was about to make.

The line was picked up at the other end after the first ring.

"Mycroft? Sorry to disturb you."

"I haven't slept, doctor."

"You watched?" John didn't like the idea of being monitored, but for now he was glad the cameras were there, he also understood this was the safer option in general, but that didn't mean he agreed. Still, this was Sherlock's place now and he had to respect his decisions, even if he couldn't understand them at all.

"Eh…. Yes," the older Holmes said after a brief moment of hesitation.

"Is he okay in there?"

"He's… on the floor, in front of his bed. Restless. I expected you to force open the door any moment. He should be given some strong anti-anxiety medication. Maybe it would be better if you -"

"You of all people should know he'll not work with any form of enforcement," John interrupted. "We need to wait for _him_ to realise he needs help, that's the only way he'll accept it."

"Good luck with that."

"I see the problem. The thing is I'm quite certain he was already halfway there a week ago, but something caused a retreat. He might need a kick in the right direction now and then, but no pressure on any aspect of this. Blimey, the important thing is that he has to understand it in _his_ way and we need to listen to what he really needs."

"I still advise you get in there and give him something against this kind of attacks."

"Not happening. He asked me to promise him not administer anything like that. Last time such meds seemed to have done the opposite, it heightened his panic and made him restless. Since he asked me not to use it again, and I won't - as long as his life isn't in immediate danger. And I won't go in there for now; I think he needs some space."

Mycroft sighed softly at the other end.

"This is my _medical_ opinion," John continued. "In his past he was forced to endure things he did know wouldn't work with him, just because it was the standard solution and a fitting procedure wasn't available. He probably experiences so many difficulties now because of those facts. Let's not make that mistake again. He… he… found some lost memories, some that seem to have been very disturbing. I won't jeopardise his trust any more than I need to."

"So why are you calling me? I think we are nearing a dead end and need to consider more drastic actions. As I know my brother this might get out of hand fast."

"I want a life feed from the surveillance camera in his room."

"Then just… oh, I realise, you're not _able_ to tap into it on your own, you need instructions how to do it, doctor."

"If that's how to make me able to watch him, then 'yes'," John dismissed the insult.

After a brief hesitation Mycroft "I'll make sure you get them."

"Good. Thank you."

"What makes you think he'll not destroy the camera as soon as he can stand?" Mycroft wanted to know.

"I've been wondering why any of those are still here for weeks."

"He wants to protect you," Mycroft explained in a matter of fact tone.

"What?… I don't understand," this was not the explanation John might have guessed. "Why does he think I'm still in danger?"

"Bonfire."

"Oh… Right," but John failed to understand it.

Why was he himself in danger in _Sherlock's_ room?

"What happened to his arm, the bruise?"

John raised his eyebrows; the equipment must be top of the line if it was possible to see that many details.  
"Err, he donated blood, it's in the fridge. I don't know why yet."

"I want a fresh sample for a tox screen, please prepare one. Give it to Anthea."

Mycroft hung up before John had the chance to say anything else.

John of course intended to check on Sherlock sooner or later, but to plan how to proceed he needed to see how his friend was doing.

.

Half an hour later Anthea brought a tablet that showed a constant life feed from the surveillance cameras and took the blood sample John had taken from the transfusion bag.

At around four in the morning John went in, it was an hour after Sherlock had finally grown quiet and seemed to be asleep on the floor. The doctor opened the door with a spare key and entered carefully.

In order not to wake the other man he only briefly checked him out.

But then John realised Sherlock was dead to the world, soaked in sweat and his vitals were relatively okay. His body was still shivering now and then and John brought in a hot water bottle and the heated the grain cushion, which he carefully placed at his sides.

The other man's sleep was so deep he didn't react at all when John checked him over thoroughly after that.

Two hours later he found Sherlock was suffering from a low fever. He removed the warming equipment and monitored it carefully, but assumed it was caused by the stress. The detective had reacted with a raised body temperature to certain topics or mental anguish before, his body was odd sometimes.

John checked on him every hour and when the fever vanished as sudden as it had appeared he turned up the heating.

In the late morning John saw movement on the small screen of the tablet. He watched his friend wake just enough to climb into bed.

It took some time, but finally the detective slipped back into sleep.

A bit later John handed the tablet over to Mary, who was insisting he slept a bit himself. He went to bed while she continued the sentry duty.

.

It was the middle of the afternoon when John woke up again. He groaned when he saw the time.

Mary was working at her laptop in the living room and handed over the tablet as soon as he entered.

"Everything quiet. How are you?"

He just grunted in reply and stared at the screen. Sherlock seemed still sound asleep.

"Have you been in there?"

"Twice, checked his temp, no fever, asleep, though tense," she reported efficiently.

"Alright. I'm gonna check on him and then have a shower."

The doctor did.

Sherlock was still sleeping and when he touched his brow moved a bit but did not wake.

John showered, when he was drying himself off he heard his phone receive a text. With damp hands he searched through the heap of clothes for his phone and opened the message immediately.

'Blood work is clean. There are news on the case. I will arrive at 1815. Make sure he's awake.'

John sighed aloud with relief about the drug test, then wondered briefly if the concept of weekends even existed in Mycroft's view of the world - probably as much as it did in Sherlock's.

A moment later he understood the older Holmes just cared in his own way, hurrying to get the information as fast as he could was his way of helping.

He dressed in fresh clothes and had a tea with Mary before entering Sherlock's room again. Worry about how Sherlock would react when he woke had plagued him all night, he apprehended more rejection or anger on Sherlock's side.

In the semi-dark he carefully sat down on the side of his former flatmate's bed and leaned closer to check the his temperature once more.

When he reached out with his hand he suddenly realised Sherlock's eyes were half open and he was looking at him.

"Hey," he greeted softly.

Sherlock remained silent and John didn't dare to touch him, he also tensed up, afraid off another confrontation.

"I'm gonna switch on the light," he warned and moments later the room was lit with the soothing yellow light of the bedside lamp.

Sherlock made a small noise of protest and blinked, but to John's great relief he didn't tense up or move.

"Headache?"

Sherlock minutely nodded, but otherwise remained still. He was just passive and watching.

"Your brother texted me. There are news about the case he wants to give to us. He'll be here in two hours."

Sherlock said nothing, just stared into the distance.

When the silence was about to turn awkward because John had no clues what was happening Sherlock finally draw a deeper breath and slowly opened his mouth.

"Thank you," he muttered in a very low and raw voice.

The doctor tried to search his memories what he might have done that caused the other man to say 'thank you'. Sherlock didn't say things like that... well, not normally.

"For what?"

"Not storming in after me and drugging me into next week. I'm sure my brother tried to make you take that course of action."

Sherlock was so calm and motionless it was almost spooky.

"Oh… Right," was all John could say to that. He didn't dare to ask how the detective was feeling, fearing it could cause agitation or whatever it was that was bugging him.

"You're dehydrated. Kettle's just boiled," he didn't ask if Sherlock wanted tea, no questions for now. He also didn't move, just waited for a reaction.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Oh, get it over with."

"What?" John frowned.

"You want to check me out, and you want to _ask_ ," Sherlock still hadn't moved, but his eyes were now closed again.

"Yes... well, yes... but I figured… I… don't want to make you feel… pushed… or anything," John explained awkwardly but then carefully and slowly wrapped his fingers around the other man's wrist, it was not as cold as before and the pulse seemed fine.

The touch only lasted about five seconds and Sherlock still didn't react, not even the slightest flinch.

"I want tea," Sherlock finally started to move.

Very slowly, he shoved away the duvet and rolled over to his side, then pushed himself upward to sit at the other side of the bed.

John stood up and watched his former flatmate's painstaking movements. They both sat on the opposite edges of the bed for long seconds before Sherlock gathered the strength to try to push himself up, John bit his lips in sympathy.

His friend was not looking good at all and must really feel like shit after this night; even though he was rested now he was probably hurting all over.

When he finally stood up John was at his side, not touching him, but showing presence and of course he was ready to steady him if necessary. Sherlock didn't shove him away or comment, he just stoically - and with an aura of enormous exhaustion - moved over to a chair, picked up a dressing gown and slipped into it.

Then he shuffled into the kitchen. John followed him.

Sherlock started to make himself tea and glanced around the kitchen, which showed no signs of the events of last night, Mary had made sure of that.

John decided eyeing him this obviously was a bad idea. He went to get some paracetamol, placed them at the table and left him to do whatever he wanted to. Sherlock had shown him the same courtesy in the past, when he had been plagued by nightmares about Afghanistan that were presumably impossible to overhear.

He was uptight to know about what had happened but saw the need to let things normalise a bit first. In John's experience that was the best way to make Sherlock talk - normalcy. Making a fuss or hovering would cause more reticence. Mary agreed with him and they did their best to act relaxed and busy.

Sherlock showered and send someone a text before he drank another tea. Finally, he took some pain medication. He neither spoke nor did his movements speed up significantly before his brother arrived, and John feared this was just the beginning of more complications.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A great thank you to every kind soul out there who was so nice to write a comment or give me kudos, hearing what you think means a lot to me! Thank you! :)


	61. Sunday evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some fluff and a little break in form of the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

Mycroft's scrutinising gaze went up and down his younger brother's sitting form, who moments before had not even bothered to greet him.

"Tea?" John offered.

"Yes," Mycroft answered, he was obviously not happy with something.

"What did you find out?" Sherlock asked, his voice was still hoarse.

Mycroft took his time to sit down in John's armchair opposite of the consulting detective, while John served tea from the fine china.

The doctor then brought a chair from the dinner table and sat down with them.

Sherlock sat with his fingertips pressed against each other, fingers spread wide, his index fingers impatiently tapping against each other in a fast rhythm.

"I was able to find out from where the forum post was made… Thank you, John," with both hands he took the cup from the other man. "The address is irrelevant, since the person who lived there has moved repeatedly during the past years. It is located in an area of military homes, adjacent to a base which is mostly used by higher ranking officers and their families. We couldn't determine who exactly posted the message, but it is unlikely that the father of the family - a sergeant back then - did it, because it is common knowledge for someone working on a base on a daily basis. The man is fifty eight now."

"Children?" John asked.

"And that's where it becomes a bit diffuse… He had a wife, she died twelve years after having their first child. The interesting thing is: one file says the man had three children, two boys and a girl, where all the others say he had two, a boy and a girl. It was pure luck that the agent I assigned to the task found this little detail."

"Your minions are mostly idiots," Sherlock grouched.

"Well, it is also possible, that a visitor used the computer. They had an exchange student staying over for a year and… Well, the family seemed to have a good reputation, though I have to admit we had to be very careful with our questions not to cause a political incident. The father has become quite active in politics, not a public person yet, but on the way to become one. Therefore we need to do this _very_ discrete. The interesting thing is: why did the person who wrote the post refrain from asking the person that was obviously more than competent to answer the question?"

"Obvious, bad relationship, missing trust," Sherlock pointed out.

"Probably, or he just wasn't home often enough," Mycroft said in a flat voice.

"The man has a spotless personal file and a high rank. I will dig deeper during the upcoming week. And quite carefully I might add, because he is also the friend of some VIPs in the government - some we cannot afford to disgruntle. I was not able to spot down his male offspring or offsprings, which is also odd, there were some other irregularities."

"Name?" Sherlock asked stiffly.

"Marc Daniel Alexander."

"Oh," Sherlock made, obviously knowing the name.

"Which part of that is his last name?" John asked a bit puzzled, obvious he had never heard of him.

"Alexander," Mycroft and Sherlock answered simultaneously. John grinned.

"The man would be in the right age for the suspect who has dumped the first victim," Sherlock explained.

"Somehow I can't think why a man of his reputation would condescend into something like this," John wondered.

"Maybe _because_ of his reputation," Sherlock theorised.

"I met him on several occasions and he's more the commanding type, not the one doing the work himself," Mycroft explained.

"Comes with the rank," John joked, trying to ease the tension in the room a bit, but it was no use. Sherlock's and Mycroft's communication style was quite stiff and neither of them even tried to fake a smile.

"Anything else?"

"That's all for now."

"You bothered to come over for _this_?" Sherlock wanted to know.

"…I also wanted to see how you are," Mycroft admitted, speaking in a quieter voice now.

" _I am fine_."

"I'd like you to take John's offer for a prescription of ADs," Mycroft dropped the bomb.

"No! I told you before I absolutely don't plan to take anything that messes up my brain."

John flinched about Sherlock's tone and feared the man would retreat into his room any moment.

But the two brothers only stared at each other, neither one blinking.

Mycroft did the sensible thing and stood up a few moments later.

"Thank you for the tea, Dr Watson," he stated formally and nodded into John's direction. "I will call as soon as I find out anything else."

"I wished you'd get your senses back and accept help with this," he addressed Sherlock without looking at him.

"Don't pretend you care, Mycroft, it doesn't suit you."

"Be assured I hate it as much as you do," Mycroft retorted.

John raised his eyebrows, not sure what he meant by that. But Sherlock huffed, obviously understanding exactly what he was saying.

"Good evening," and Mycroft was out of the door.

.

Sherlock spend the rest of the evening experimenting on antidotes, while Mary made curry for dinner.

What was surprising to the doctor was how much the other man drank, he must be really dehydrated. Sherlock made a whole pot of tea and drank it all alone.

The couple successfully talked Sherlock into eating with them, sitting at the table and all.

He managed to eat almost half the portion he was served.

John and Mary had decided not to confront him about last night, yet. They all needed some time to let this sink in.

Although John was deeply interested in knowing what Sherlock had remembered, he knew from his own PTSD therapy that it was a bad idea to urge the other man to talk about it when he wasn't ready.

Of course Sherlock managed to behave like his former normal self over the day, even better than at any point since his return. The doctor assumed it was one more sign of how  defeated he was by last nights events.

When they were half through the meal Sherlock stood up and headed to his room.

"Where are you going?" Mary asked a bit surprised, sipping her red wine.

"Getting… something," Sherlock mumbled.

When he hadn't come back three minutes later and nothing could be heard John went to make sure he was okay.

He found the detective sleeping on his stomach on top of the bed covers, exhaustion even in sleep clearly visible in his face.

As silent as he could he closed the door, so they wouldn't disturb him.  Then he headed into the living room fetching the tablet PC from the rubble in the bookshelf where he had hidden it before.

"Is he okay?"

"Looks like it. Asleep."

Mary chuckled, "Digestion is a lot of work, especially when the cook deliberately uses things that make eaters tired."

"What?"

"I cooked rice, used honey… all ingredients that should result in serotonin production and aid sleep."

"Oh, right. Natural sleep aid, then?"

"I thought we could all use it after last night, especially since he refuses meds."

John grinned and switched on the tablet, "Are you reading up on natural remedies?"

"No. I knew them before, not in depth though. It's more like some sort of comfort food."

"The words comfort and food don't go together with Sherlock Holmes. I'm sure he'd even refuse to try to understand the concept," John rolled his eyes and added some more curry to the small portion of remaining rice on his plate.

"To be honest, the thought that I don't know how I am supposed to comfort him, makes me a bit nervous these days. There actually is _nothing_ I can think of how to comfort him, not really, not when he is really upset. I mean giving him work usually works, but…"

"Oh, come on, you have been comforting him constantly for the last two weeks, and its fine, he allows you to."

"Yeah, he did in the beginning, but not any longer, this is not… I don't know…"

"Have you considered just giving him a hug and telling him you're glad he's back?"

"He'd probably kick me out of the flat for that kind of stunt. He doesn't like to be touched, now even less than _before_."

"I know, but maybe he'll recognise it as what is usually means, instead of refusing it. A hug is a pretty direct gesture, you can barely say that with words."

"I know, but… Sherlock is not the person you should hug… I've never hugged him."

"Really?… Oh."

"But… Greg told me he did."

"And?"

"Nothing, he didn't try to bite his head off."

"Yeah, well, maybe that's a good sign."

"I'm not sure… The idea feels… wrong…"

They ate in silence for a few moments until Mary held out her hand.

"Give me your phone."

"What for?" John was suspicious when he saw her archly smile.

"I want to text Mycroft and ask him what comfort food Sherlock had as a child."

"No!"

"Why not? It's fun to imagine his face when he reads the text. Besides, you have nothing to fear, he'll know it was me."

John giggled, then realised she was trying to help his mood, too.

He fetched his phone and handed it over, then put another bite into his mouth.

She typed a message and after she had hit the 'send' button she put it on the table between them.

But instead of receiving a text the phone rang moments later.

Mary picked up, "Wait, I'll put you on speaker."

"Where's the package our mother send?" Mycroft's voice sounded out of the speaker.

"What?" John didn't understand.

"The bag, it contained food that _was_ actually Sherlock-comfort-food."

"Really?" Mary grinned widely.

"Give him some of that ground cacao beans."

"What is it? Normal cacao?" Mary asked.

"What's so special about it?" John wanted to know the same moment.

"How to prepare it. But concerning Sherlock and food I need to explain something else first… He prefers certain... textures. As a child he insisted on eating the exact same things repeatedly, and they must have been prepared with _no_ variation. The less things are mixed, the higher the chances he likes them… What I mean is _keep it separate_."

"Oh," Mary made.

"Yeah, that means no such things as stews. I had a hard time figuring that out," John informed. "Asian food is the only exception, maybe because the things are not cooked forever, but that's my theory."

"Our mother had a hard time, too. It became a real problem when he refused to eat food at school, which was then reported to the nurse and that led to a doctor's appointment. The man misdiagnosed him with anorexia because he refused to eat things with a certain texture or taste. When asked Sherlock also reported he was able to taste and smell the professional dishwashing detergent on the cutlery and glasses and it made him nauseous. The doctor refused to believe him, insinuated he was making this up. He was refusing to eat, so he was anorexic, and since he was a doctor, he was never wrong. Excuse my sarcasm, John, but back then doctors repeatedly presented this attitude. Things have changed for the better in the last years, doctors have started to listen more than back then, but it comes too late for him, the damage is done. Luckily, our mother didn't share the doctor's opinion and encouraged Sherlock to tell her what was bugging him about school food. Then spoiled him with break time snacks and sandwiches from home. She managed quite well, as long as he was a child, but it went downhill after he moved out. Got better after you moved in though, John."

"Ta," John just muttered.

"Our mother made me give the package to him, but I guess he'll not use the items on his own. So I have to explain it to you. Listen carefully, or better write it down... Do you know where it is?"

John fetched pen and paper.

"Under the sink, let me get it," Mary said, heading into the kitchen.

"Our mother was quite fond of you, John, and told me to explain to you how to use the things she sent… I don't understand why she doesn't call you directly… Well, so here _I_ am explaining receipts to you…"

John smiled about the desperate and unnerved tone the older Holmes displayed. In some things the brothers were so much alike. Sherlock would do it in a similar way.

"There's pure de-oiled cocoa powder, organic and without any additives," Mycroft started.

"Yap," Mary said, rummaging in the large bag and producing an expensive looking box.

"You're supposed to make a drink from it, but you need to do it absolutely the way I tell you to. So, put two heaping teaspoons of the powder into a medium sized cup, add three table spoons of boiling water and mix it into a thick paste, takes a few moments, don't wonder. Then slowly fill up the mug with low fat milk and heat it up in the microwave, or pre-heat the milk on the stove, the serving temperature should be about 65 degrees in the end. Don't try it; it's disgusting, bitter, intense, and dark. Do under no circumstances add anything else or sugar."

"Whoa, that sounds _not_ really good," Mary grimaced.

"He puts more sugar than tea in his tea," John wondered.

"Well, he's strange with his eating habits, but he actually _likes_ this. There's more, get some fresh ginger, peel it, blend it with an immersion blender or something, put four large tablespoons into a small cup, brew with boiling water or better cook for at least ten minutes, remove the dregs, add a large tablespoon of brown sugar. Don't try it either, except you really like hot and sweet at once. If it's ridiculously hot and sweet you did it right. Temperature: 70 degrees."

"God, I'd never have thought he'd eat something like that, it's quite intense."

"Well, we were never sure if this was about hurting himself or comforting, whatever it does, it calms him."

"How did she figure _that_ out?"

"Actually… with the cacao, when Sherlock was about six, she prepared a mixture for making chocolate pudding. But before she had time to add starch or stir the concentrate into the boiling milk Sherlock had drunk it and asked for more. When she was finished scolding him and tried the mixture herself she realised she had forgotten the sugar. He later asked for it on several occasions, she figured out it was in moments of stress. When she wanted to know why he wanted it, he just said his body is asking for it, never actually said if he liked it or not. But since it was usually a fight to get any calories into him my mother was glad of every bit, especially when he asked for it."

"And with the ginger… that one is recent. He made my chef do that for him on several occasions after we came back from Serbia, said something about a temple or Asia or something, not sure, wasn't there."

"Blimey," John giggled. "Never thought we'd do comfort food for him… Glad you told me. Is there more?"

"Getting the temperature right is in both things essential. There is more, but these are the most important ones. But please call our mother if it isn't urgent, _please_. I'll text you the number," Mycroft sounded almost afraid to be used as a messenger like this in the future.

"Alright. We will. Thank you Mycroft," Mary smiled.

"Thanks, good night," John added.

They hung up and Mary opened the cacao and smelled it.

"Oh, this is nice."

"I'm not sure how to confront him with that. He'll know we try to comfort him. Might get difficult, we can't waste this as a tool, we need to be sensible and careful about offering it to him. The fact that he put it under the sink says he doesn't want to see it or be reminded it exists."

They hid the content of the package to prevent it from being thrown away and ate some dessert, then went to bed early.

Sherlock was sound asleep every time they checked on him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I was in a dark mood and tried to compensate with slight humour. It might have become a bit too fluffy, hope I didn't overcompensate.


	62. Monday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some new developments on the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made.

 

**Monday**

John had once more switched shifts for the afternoon and for Tuesday, because he was not ready to trust Sherlock's calm and controlled demeanour enough to leave him alone. But for Monday morning Mary would be the only one in the flat with the detective.

She suggested that if Sherlock might get bored she'd keep him busy with trying to figure out the best date for the wedding, since Sherlock had agreed before that he'd help with planning.

As soon as John switched on the kettle for his breakfast coffee the detective appeared in the kitchen and without a word sat down on the table and switched on the microscope.

"Mornin'," John greeted, his hair was still wet from the shower.

Sherlock answered with a soft humming noise and started lining up slides.

"Are you even fully awake?" John joked.

"Do I have to be?" Sherlock said, now sorting out some brown glass bottles and fetching pen and paper.

"Tea?" John smiled.

Another meaningless hum.

"Coffee?"

"Yes."

Five minutes later Sherlock was fully concentrated on dropping several liquids onto the slides while cataloguing them simultaneously. Sipping his coffee, John sat down opposite him, watching his every move. Sherlock's extremely normal behaviour was ringing every alarm bell John had. He decided to call Ella to ask for another appointment for a session with her, to talk about suppressed memories.

 

John's morning was a bit hectic, but he found the time to call Ella and tell her about Sherlock's episode. She offered him a double appointment later that day.

At first John was indecisive if that soon was a good idea, he wrote a text message to Mary asking how she and the detective were doing - he'd go home if he was needed rather than seeing Ella.

When she answered that Sherlock was still concentrated on experiments and that Mycroft had informed him that he'd arrive shortly, John decided he had no excuse to _not_ see his therapist. Sherlock would be busy and had Mary assured they were fine.

But after the double session the doctor was quite frustrated with Ella. Once more he wondered if she was even vaguely able to understand Sherlock… or him. They had done first one session discussing Sherlock's problems and then the second about his own issues with the whole affair of Sherlock being back.

The things she suggested to try with Sherlock would not work at all as John saw it and she seemed not to want to consider alternative methods or ideas and blocked all his tries to transform the ideas into something Sherlock would listen to.

But John took notes and hoped he'd somehow manage to translate this into a Sherlock-conform way on his own later.

Ella urged him to make Sherlock go to see a therapist himself, not understanding in the slightest why John was sure this wasn't an option. She also advised him to move back to his own house with Mary so Sherlock would understand he needed to seek help on his own and become active in his own healing. John was not able to make her understand why this wouldn't work, for neither of them.

.

When John came home in the early afternoon Sherlock and Mycroft had left.

After a brief lunch Mary left for work and John send a text to Sherlock asking what was going on.

 _'Meet us at Scotland Yard in an hour. SH'_ Sherlock answered. So John changed and headed for the tube.

.

He entered Lestrade's office but the DI was alone.

"Hello, John. They'll be up here any minute. How are the two of you doing?" Lestrade greeted him.

"Lousy," John answered and sank into the visitor's chair, then briefly explained the events of the past days.

"Well, ehm... maybe you should be a bit more… brisk," Greg leaned forward over his desk, " _Make_ him listen. Years ago, when he was... I mean _before_... I sometimes did that. I always felt bad about it, but at the few occasions when I kicked his ass he… complied. Maybe we're too careful. I mean… consider he just isn't able to ask for anything… Shove it at him, see what his reaction is. This sounds a bit harsh, but maybe he just can't ask for it. He thinks – or fears - that the things we offer don't help, but I am not sure he understands them. That's what I figured out when he was younger."

Greg sighed and scratched his head, then continued, this conversation was obviously not easy for him.

"Look, back then... most of the times he didn't know what he needed. Sometimes when he did know he just wasn't able to ask for it, or stated that he had already tried it on his own, not understanding that it couldn't work on his own, or whatever. Besides, the possibility that help exists seems not to exist in his mindset - or he just forgets it does. Or he had been told too often that he had no right to ask because he was not worth anything and a freak… Sorry, I'm not good with this."

"I know, Greg… I already did that… some aspects of this _are_ like dealing with a child, but… he used to listen to me when I told him about emotional things, well, at least sometimes… Lately he has turned stubborn - for a lack of a better word - though not consciously... he seems to have switched off his will to listen to me. I don't know what I did wrong. I'm a bit desperate."

Moments later the Holmes brothers entered the office and interrupted the conversation.

It was a rare occurrence for Lestrade to see the Mycroft, especially at Scotland Yard.

After the greetings the older Holmes closed the blinds and started the conversation.

"We want to inform you, that there might be a chance that there is a possible suspect. The whole affair is somewhat delicate and therefore I suggest you handle this as an anonymous tip."

"Oh?" Lestrade made, surprised.

"You might want to observe the doings of Col. Marc Daniel Alexander, please write down the address," Mycroft instructed.

Lestrade fetched his pen and notepad, while John gave Sherlock a puzzling look, who just shrugged and made an unnerved gesture.

This was _so_ not standard procedure.

"In case the man has his hands in your serial killer case, make absolutely sure that there is a rock-solid, unwavering heap of clear evidence when you officially approach him," Mycroft warned, then turned towards his brother, "that includes you, no more hanging around the house without clearance."

"What?" John pointed an asking gaze.

"My dear brother spent last night at the suspect's house and when he was sure the man was away for some time he went to gather some intel."

"What?!" John almost yelled.

Mycroft raised his hand and stopped John from continuing, "Obviously, I didn't make myself clear when I adviced him to be _discrete_."

"I was, that's why I went inside to find something more concrete, because there was no official way to do it," Sherlock spit.

"Jesus, Sherlock!" John groaned.

"Well, he was lucky, the security system recorded nothing out of order."

"That was no luck, it was _competence_. After two years of hunting criminals in the field my practice is excellent."

"Yes, well, except that incident when…" Mycroft started.

Sherlock hissed angrily.

"We'll discuss this later, I must go back. I'm here because I didn't trust him to tell you on his own."

Sherlock seemed to sulk and John saw the argument coming, still a bit stunned about what he had just learned.

If asked, he'd have stated Sherlock had been in the flat all night. Now he wondered how many nights his former flatmate had already been out on his own.

"Wait wait wait wait! Did you just confess to a Detective Inspector, that you broke into the house of…" but Lestrade was interrupted by both brothers.

"No, you misheard," Mycroft hurried to say.

"No one entered the house, as you could see if you'd checked the security system, but you won't, because this is delicate!" Sherlock hurried to add.

John blew out his breath and rubbed his forehead with his fingertips.

"How often?" he asked loudly, drowning the brother's quarrel.

"What?"

"How often have you sneaked out at night?"

"I don't _sneak_ out!" Sherlock broadcasted hostility now.

" _Went_ out then? - Since I'm staying over?"

"Once," Mycroft informed.

Lestrade saw John's  anger, but before the doctor had time to add fuel to the argument he interfered, fearing they'd only make it all worse with a struggle right now. Greg feared Sherlock would vanish into one of his boltholes if he didn't feel free and safe at the flat any longer, he had done such things often enough in his youth. So the DI did the first thing that came to his mind to deescalate the situation.

"What did you find out?"

"Finally someone is concentrating on the important things!" Sherlock remarked sarcastically, then went on, "Inside the house I found framed pictures, as expected. Mostly of the wife, and of two children, a girl and a boy. The absence of other male offsprings was remarkable, as was the fact that there were no pictures newer than… maybe the mid nineties."

Sherlock's speech was as fast as usual.

"So, I searched for photo albums, took less than four minutes to find them, although they were carefully stored away. The pictures showed that after the birth of the first boy a second one was born. In contrast to the first two children this one seemed clearly less wanted, since the amount of pictures taken was only a third of those taken of the other children, maybe because it just was the third and the event was not as _monumental_ for the parents as the birth of the first ones."

Sherlock paused briefly, sitting down next to John before he continued.

"But I assume it was more because of the deteriorating relationship of the parents… or maybe, the child was illegitimate, or the mother was already ill and had other things on her mind. There were also no pictures of the child from the point that must have been the mother's death."

Sherlock spoke almost faster than John could store the information.

"I found the birth certificates in the family register, and the dates on the last pictures of the boy dated a few weeks before her death. I'm sure the father raised the child, but he was for some reason not at all fond of him. I assume she made him promise her on her deathbed to care for the boy, which would not fit to the broken-marriage-theory, he wouldn't care about such a promise then, wouldn't he?"

The last question was directed at John. The doctor needed a moment to understand he was asked about human behaviour.

"Well, maybe they became closer again. But it's odd, yes."

"Since there were no newer pictures I photographed some of the latest with my phone, there is a vast resemblance to our suspect, but not an unmistakable one. I found no hints at all except a name: Ian Alexander and his date of birth in the register. The man we encountered seemed too young to match him. We need to get data, now."

"Anyway, as interesting as this is, I need to go," Mycroft interrupted, "I'm sure the DI knows how to proceed. We _will_ speak later, Sherlock."

Mycroft's tone was quite grumpy, even for him. He was out of the door before Greg had time to see him off.

Silence settled in the office, everyone lost in their thoughts for a moment.

"We need a computer program that renders a picture of how the child looks today."

"Yeah, but it's difficult with children."

"I know, but better than nothing," Sherlock answered.

"Okay, I'll have some technician do it. I'll also organise surveillance, we need a reason to question him, but as your brother suggests, it might be better to collect usable data first."

"Send me the pictures," Sherlock stood up.

As did Lestrade, "Sherlock, one more bloody stunt like this and I'll pull you off this investigation, do I make myself clear?"

Sherlock just rolled his eyes.

"Idle threat," he answered, an extremely wide faked grin on his face, which made Lestrade suck in air through his gritted teeth in disapproval.

Sherlock closed his coat and was out of the door without another word.

"Don't say it, I know. I'm trying to get a grip on this," John stood up, too and followed his former flatmate.

"Call me, okay? See you."

 

When they arrived home Sherlock headed straight into his room and wasn't seen for the rest of the evening.

John and Mary watched a movie and when the end credits ran over the screen they heard Sherlock in the bathroom, which he had obviously entered through his room.

When Sherlock had returned to his room Mary looked at her future husband.

"Yeah, something surely has stiffened in the past days - I mean besides the obvious. The things he relived have surely shaken him, but it was going downhill before. I'm aware, though I can't pinpoint it. Can you, John?"

"I'm at a loss. I'm desperate," the doctor breathed and she rubbed his back.

John had told her about Sherlock breaking into the house and the events of the day.

"God, I thought we were making progress," John continued in a low voice, "But this feels like one step forward and two steps back. It was better before, he didn't refuse this much. He had opened up a bit. What changed?"

"I really can't say. I've only seen you interact for a few days, some of those only for a few hours, I can't… it's just not clear... not enough data."

"Oh, great, Dr. Freud, thank you so much! The session with Ella today was really crappy, stop analysing me."

"Sorry."

They rarely spoke about John's therapy sessions, not that Mary didn't ask, but John was usually not eager to share. She was often teasing him a bit or trying to coax him out into the light with it. He had managed to open up a bit about the sessions during the past months, but Mary expressed that she wanted to know more. The topic surfaced every time John had nightmares or Mary suspected he was having another kind of problem he didn't share. 

So - while the late night news flickered across the telly - he told her more about what he had told Ella.

"I know I've said this before, but it's like… he has changed. This is… He's not even telling me how stupid I am or how blind, neither is he insulting me on a regular basis. He doesn't hint how he is superior to others."

"Oh, he is!" Mary contradicted.

"Maybe, but not like before, not like he used to be. He has… aged, grown up, the really hard way," John struggled to explain, "I don't know... I can't really put a finger on it, but it's his posture, it's kind of… he has lost something virgin - not in a sexual way - but some aspects of _not knowing_ or _not understanding_ are gone. He has seen things... learned things, hard things, bad things. I can see it in his attitude and his eyes. His mind has aged, it's the one of a much more mature man, it scares me."

He paused, staring into space while searching for words.

"It's like the young men that have gone through their first tour in the service, when they come back, you can see it in their eyes how much it has changed them. Something is _gone_."

John once more rubbed his face with his palms, a sign of exhaustion and being lost, he used far too often these days.

"I mean I always wished he'd grow up a bit, but not like this, _this_ scares me. He's so… soft. No, some of his facial expressions and emotional remarks are, some of them might be even oddly authentic, but the rest isn't, it's covering up other things, I suppose. It's creeping me out. It's so very different, it's unsettling."

"Well, I have to keep an eye on that, not sure yet, what you mean."

"No matter what I do, it's not helping. You have no comparison... Shit, I feel so useless, I don't know what to do."

"John, you're looking really battered, let's go to bed," she hugged him and kissed his temple. The doctor briefly kissed her on the mouth, he was overwhelmed once more with the amount of help she was offering. He had pondered a lot about how to reconcile Sherlock and Mary in the upcoming weeks, expecting it to be difficult.

They switched off the lights and headed upstairs with the tablet.

Overall Mary seemed to be curious to get to know Sherlock better, she seemed not jealous at all, not that she was the type, but he had seen too often how women reacted to Sherlock,  their friendship, and their shared interest in solving crimes, to not fear it.

He had explained that and his concerns to Mary. But she made it clear she understood and that she'd like to see how they worked together, their routine, and that she wanted him to be happy and if that included solving cases with Sherlock so it was.

John once more considered himself lucky to have met her and was reminded why he loved her.

"I'll get up every hour and check on him, use the earplugs, you need some rest. I'm starting to really worry about you, too," Mary offered when they had shut their bedroom door.

"Don't, I'll manage. Sherlock is the one needing help," John sat down on the edge of his side of the bed while Mary started changing into pyjamas.

"John… I have to tell you something. Please don't be angry, but… I read a few books about PTSD during the past three months."

"What? Seriously? Why?" John was clearly a bit annoyed and turned around to look at her.

"Honestly, I think that's quite obvious... Because, my future husband was diagnosed with it and although he has told me about _some_ major issues I am a bit clueless about the rest. So I thought it was a good idea… and because I'm working as a nurse, for god's sake. I wanted background."

"Oh," John pressed his lips into a line.

"Have _you_ ever read a book about it? I mean a real book, not just that patient information pamphlet stuff."

John puckered his lips, clearly not eager to talk about it.

"No. I relied on what my therapists told me when they diagnosed me and read a large heap of patient leaflets and booklets I was given. I read no _medical_ book about it, but I did read the survey for military personnel at the topic. Well, maybe you're right and this is the point to do it," he pressed his fingertips into his nape, trying to draw out some tension. "Guess I tried to evade that before."

"That's why you preferred to use Ella's filters on it. But I think she is in a bit of a dilemma there. I think she can't do that. A: she doesn't seem to be the person to understand Sherlock at all, and we know there are quite a load of people out there who don't. And B: you're asking her to move to a meta level and discuss things from there when you have no background and she thinks it wouldn't be healthy for you to discuss things like this with her as your therapist... You know, as in undermining the methods of the therapy by explaining them."

"So, you think she thinks discussing it from a medical POV will interact badly with our doctor-patient relationship?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't she just tell me? Or told me which book to read, then?"

"I think she thinks you are either not ready or maybe that you shouldn't try to 'treat' him."

"I am _not_ , of course not! And I made that quite clear. I just need to understand what's going on. Help him help himself, because that's the only way."

"I know, but does she?... But in a way that's what a therapist does, right?"

"Yes, but not in _that_ way. It's totally different to…"

"You don't have to explain, I know. You're not trying to 'treat' him like a doctor, you're trying to make him better like a friend. Maybe that's why she didn't tell you about specialist books and is not eager to explain it to you, so you could go keep those separate in your line of action. Though I think she _could_ do better. The more you tell me about her the more I wonder why you picked her as your therapist. She seems to understand very little."

"Don't! I struggled enough to try to trust her, don't undermine that."

"Sorry," she hugged him from behind, then explained she was aware that what Ella had suggested needed a serious Sherlock-compatibility-overhaul. She agreed that most of the approaches the therapist had in stock where good with normal people, but total nonsense with the detective, he'd either not understand the questions or would point out it was total nonsense.

"John, I'm sorry about not telling you earlier about the books. The thing is I love you and I wanted to know what was happening. I've seen your nightmares, I felt I needed some background to handle them better. I wanted to know the dos and don'ts, understand a bit more. So I kind of had the same motive you have with him, now, you know."

"What did you read?"

"Some semi specialist stuff I'd call it. It's not written for studying psychology or doctor's educations. Two books for nurses and staff in hospitals, which are mostly about handling the problems and explaining general mechanisms… one for relatives and friends about all day problems and how to solve them. All written by specialists but for people without psychology education," she let go of him and folded back her duvet.

"Great," John sighed.

"Darling, I did this because I love you and want to support you, not to give you the impression that you are not able to..."

"I know!" John answered hastily, a bit unnerved. Then his tone softened, "Thank you for all your understanding and assistance. I'm sorry that this is awkward… It's just... that it is hard, bringing up all my own symptoms and issues for the _third_ time... and like this... and discussing things."

"I know, you were just starting to get over the Fall and the loss and now he's back and it's all stirred up. I want to be there for you."

She crawled over the bed to his side again and gently stroked his head, then leaned over him to kiss him with a smile.

"Come on, let's cuddle, I'm cold."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter, I'd love to know what you think.  
> 


	63. Tuesday - around 2am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things finally get to John, too - more than he wants to admit in the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.
> 
> I had a really bad week, so I needed an escape, that's why you get another chapter this soon.

 

Mary resurfaced from sleep only two hours later when she heard John moan in his sleep. She was immediately sure he was going through another nightmare.

She switched on the bedside lamp and started to rub his arm firmly.

"John, wake up."

It usually wasn't easy to wake him but should work within a few minutes.  She noticed that he was soaked in sweat and quite pale.

"Nonono," John whispered into the silence of the room.

"Darling, you're dreaming, wake up now!" Mary tried again, "We are in our bed at Baker Street and you need to wake up now!"

Her future husband's head turned from one side to the other and his distress was obviously growing.

"John! You need to wake up!" her voice was louder and firmer now; she rubbed his arm. Quite aware that he might wake disoriented or fighting, she stayed alert and ready to back off.

Then John stiffened and a moment later yelled in rough panic.

"SHERLOCK!"

He had screamed himself wide awake and jerked upwards, panting.

"John? John… it's okay, you're safe, we are fine, Sherlock is alive. It's okay!… It's okay!" she tried to ground him.

Disorientated and overwhelmed John stumbled out of the bed, backing away from her.

"John, it's okay!" she raised her hands to show him everything was okay.

It took a moment until he finally blinked and to her relief she saw understanding return to his eyes.

He then leaned against the wall sideways, still panting.

"Shit," he grimaced.

Mary unwrapped herself from the duvet and hurried to his side.

When he tried to turn away his face she was sure he was fighting tears.

"Hey, let's sit down, come on."

She gently took his arm but to her surprise he didn't even try to return to their bed, he sat down where he was - leaned sideways against the wall - and hid his face on his knees.

"John. What did you dream of?"

"Barts. Fall," his voice sounded chocked and he had started trembling under Mary's hands.

"Darling, don't hold this back. If you need to let this out then just do it."

John shook his head.

"Why not? If this marriage is supposed to work then you need to trust me that I can handle it, and that you can lean on me in times of need."

John shook his head.

"Trust issues at work?"

John shook his head once more.

"What else?"

He gulped and it was a mixture of a sob and an odd sad haunted sound, that made Mary hurt with him.

She wrapped her arms around him, loosely at first, careful not to overstep a boundary. She had seen her fiancé have a panic attack before, had witnessed his voice hoarse or even breaking with grieve at Sherlock's grave, and had seen him have nightmares, but he had never really lost it in front of her. 

He was stiff and tense in her arms, not reacting to the hug and his breathing remained ragged.

"Come on, relax," she tightened her hold and then shifted her hand to the back of his skull, cupping it in a protective gesture that seemed to surprise him, because he stiffened and held his breath for a moment  but then relaxed into her arms and leaned against her. She guided his head to her shoulder, holding him there gently.

She could feel his effort to stay still and slow down his breathing, could feel him press his lips together.

They just sat there in silence for a few long minutes, John fighting for control and Mary rubbing his back and trying to soothe him.

After some time, when he seemed relatively calm again, she decided to try to talk about what had just happened.

"John, please tell me how you feel… You have hinted that it is easier to tell me than to talk to Ella, I need to know what you think. Come on."

"Shit, you're getting bloody therapeutic on me _now_?" his voice was thick with unshed tears.

"Kind off, yes, the brief talk we had when we went to bed must have stirred things up. Maybe... we should talk about it, now."

She released her hug to look at his face, "Come on. In sickness and health, good and bad times. You can't expect Sherlock to open up and be all close-lipped yourself."

John slowly backed away and pointed towards the bed. They stood up and shuffled over to the bed, sitting down on it.

"Just tell me what you told Ella, can you do that?"

"What good will that do?"

"I'll be able to understand, assist, be a reassuring presence… and besides I want to know when you feel bad and why."

John huffed nervously, knowing she was right. He trusted her more than Ella; he was just not sure he wanted to put that load on her. He dragged his legs onto the bed and leaned against the headboard, Mary sat next to him, cross legged, dragging the duvet up to keep them warm.

"The first days I was here, I thought we were making progress, he showed trust, he let me in, talked a bit… but now… it's like he has made a step back away from me, the distance growing bigger every day. Like… he doesn't trust me any longer. It's… I don't know, I fear he'll do things again without telling me, and I suppose that's why I re-experience how he jumped in my sleep again."

John pressed his fingers to his closed eyes to keep the frustration in.

"You dreamt about the Fall."

"Yeah, was more like the exact memory of what happened."

They had never talked about the Fall in detail, she had always been too careful to ask directly, though she had done some research.

"We talked, he said goodbye, standing on the rim. When he threw away his phone I screamed up at him, but he just... jumped. He just…" his voice broke, and Mary again wrapped herself around him.

"Maybe I am afraid he'll do it again. Maybe I don't trust him to keep himself alive."

"I think it has nothing to do with _him_ not trusting _you_ , John," Mary tried gently.

"Well, on the outside he's an odd mixture of a - kind of - sentimental or nostalgic or whatever façade and behind that he is as distant as he was when I first met him. Not letting anyone in."

"Oh, you know, he probably needed to be like that in the past two years, to survive, to fight Moriarty, to get through that. I think he can't just switch it off from one day to the next."

"He has said it surprisingly direct that he wanted me back and had missed me, why is he now shoving me away again?"

"He isn't. He probably senses your anger and is afraid you'll reject him."

"What?" John's demeanour changed from desperate to aghast, he backed away.

"Maybe he senses your anger and thinks you are saying one thing and doing the opposite. I'm not sure he believes that you really have forgiven him… and your underlying anger is probably the proof to him."

"That's ridiculous. I'm not angry any longer," John stated and there was a slight hint of panic in his voice.

Mary gave a soft sarcastic laugh, "Oh yes, you are. Don't get me wrong, I understand that anger, and he probably finally does too. You said he said 'sorry' in _his_ way several times, I think he feels your anger and his own anger at himself for the hurt he caused you and those two are making him keep a distance. Part of him feels _guilty_."

"I'm not angry!"

"I know that you know that he would've never done this without a good reason. This is just about not being able to get over your anger as fast as you want to, isn't it?"

John remained silent for a long time, head bowed.

"Maybe, yes… yes, my head knows, my heart is still…"

"Well, you believed in Sherlock Holmes, although the rest of the world didn't."

"Yeah… but this is not like I don't know that… I _do_ know. I'm the luckiest person to get a second chance… to have him return from the dead… I know all that. But…"

"… but it just hurts… You can't do anything about it. No rational thinking helps with this. You've been trying since the restaurant. That night, when you decided that you wanted him back in your life, when the joy overpowered the anger. But the hurt remains… and you can't kill it."

John huffed, this was different from talking to Ella, this felt more... right. Although it was a difficult topic to admit things like this to himself, which Ella was trying to do all the time, but Mary had a different understanding. He felt more accepted here - although Ella never judged, it would be unprofessional as hell - and it was more like Mary managed to just put things into words he needed to hear.

"Yes, thank you, couldn't have said it any better," John murmured, tipping his head forwards again.

This was an emotional roller coaster.

"So, yes, you are, John! Some aspect of you is still angry with him. You don't want to be, but a small part of you is still really angry…."

"I don't know, maybe... I'm… just still so very shocked, bewildered and… wounded that he _really_ did this to me," it started to pour out of the doctor, "That he did something this profoundly and doesn't even understand what he has done. This hurts more than anything. I feel… betrayed, and used, and unwanted, and… like all I ever did had no meaning to him at all. Like he showed me how useless I am and that I don't count at all. I know it's not true. I want him back in my life but… this is lingering, the same feelings I had about him committing suicide, the same betrayal."

Ella had suggested some of those things and he repeated her words now, finally understanding that she got those parts right.

"You try to hide it, and in general you're doing good, but to him and to me… we can sense it. I am sure he doesn't know how to handle that. He doesn't even understand it fully, though he understands it's his fault," Mary explained what she thought she had observed about Sherlock and his problems with human nature up to now.

"He has no experience with such things. He just doesn't know what to do to make this right. He probably thinks about what to do right for hours straight, but in the end he has gone through so much and weighted so many facts against each other that he is more confused than before," she continued.

John felt as if gravity had just been increased, he rubbed his neck.

"He can't sort this in, into the database you told me about, I mean… I'm sure he's overwhelmed with _these_ aspects of human nature. I think he's afraid to cause any more damage and therefore keeps to himself. He totally didn't see this coming. All those carefully planned scenarios - hunting down Moriarty's web, taking care off every aspect, taking all possible precautions - but in the end, the human factor has taken him by surprise, more surprise than he could probably even handle if he was fully himself. This created a maze he can not cope with alone. He's lost."

"Right, so why doesn't he just follow my lead? I already told him that he hurts me even more by keeping me out of the loop, why doesn't he get it? He even admitted that he'd feel the same if our positions were switched."

"He's hurting, too. And what he has gone through probably messes his experiences with human behaviour up even more. Maybe he needs more explanations. These emotions are new to him, I think. The trauma, the nightmares - he's frightened. Besides, you told me he senses feelings different. Let's get back to that database-thing. You said he has another one for translations of how sensations and feelings feel for him and how he'd describe them and a translation into how normal humans might describe them. Maybe he's not sure if his and your feelings with the same name are actually the same, and have the same intensity. He's just afraid to lose you again."

"Sherlock Holmes is many things, but he is _not_ frightened."

"Maybe the last two years taught him…"

John stared at her in astonishment - she was right.

It was so simple and so grave, and so serious.

Sherlock had experienced a severe shock to his self: vulnerability.

Mary hurried to continue when she sensed John's horror in the air.

"You know how you described him to me and how I sense his behaviour, he's really good at memorising things… taking every minute detail in, not able to over-see anything, seeing _everything,_ which might amplify the problem here. I fear that when he's in a situation today that reminds him of a situation during his 'time away' in which he wished you were there, he  - now that you are there - tries to take it in, tries to appreciate it."

When John looked puzzled she elaborated.

"He now has experienced how bad it was when you weren't there, but instead of it feeling good that he has you back in his life he only feels the terror of how it was not to have you there. How it was to be totally alone… and his anxiety that he might lose you again because of what he did to save/keep you. He's totally lost with all this. He feels he can't move without doing something wrong."

"Hell, what makes you think that?"

"I also observe sometimes, John. This is what I see. Occasionally he starts to react to something but then he consciously stops it. Keep your eyes open and you'll see it."

"I'm trying... Great, are _you_ telling me too now, that I see but not observe!" John was angry now, more about himself and his helplessness than anything else.

"No. You're a good observer, but this is where the tiny remnants of your anger block the pathways that would register this. The really subtle things you don't look for," Mary grimaced inwardly. She had meant this to be a soothing nice supportive conversation, but she was confronting John in a way she wasn't sure was really good.

Would this cause trouble that she was this direct instead of all fluff and soothing?

He buried his face in his hands.

"Well, I'm afraid he goes out there and buys drugs every time he leaves my sight. Every night is a bloody danger night."

"God, sorry, I didn't mean to hint that you… John, this is a brainstorming, just theorizing and searching. God, you are doing good, I just wanted to say there are more possibilities. Of course keeping him alive is the most important. I didn't mean to…"

"Sorry, yes, I know you didn't. I am just a bit on the edge. Go on," he leaned forwards and kissed her temple.

"From what I see he _really_ tries to be kind, I think it's a way to ask for forgiveness."

"And that's just not like him… I'm not sure he needs forgiveness… besides I did more than show him that the past weeks. I took care, I was kind, I was patient, I stayed over, I went to investigate with him… What else can I do? I just don't know what to do any more. I feel helpless and my hands are bound… I fell I have already tried everything that is human possible."

"Yeah, I know, you did a lot, more than most people would do for anybody. He knows, he wants to trust those actions, but he's just too horrified of all this to dare to do it… Once burned twice shy. Also, I think he's subconsciously afraid he'll lose you to me. We need to be aware of this, counteract this."

"How can you be so…"

"…understanding?… I knew how important he was to you from the beginning. The room he had in your life, even in death, was large. When I met you his presence was still enormous, even after two years and I respected that. And I respect it now that he is back. I know what it means to you."

John fought tears again, now forcefully pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I think the way you handled this up to now is the best thing you could do. It will take time, just time… and explanations of your feelings and human nature."

"I'm not sure we have time…"

"What?" Mary sounded alarmed, "You think he's suicidal?"

"No… not really… I'm just afraid he might slip away, vanish, fall back into old habits, be reckless and risky… I don't know how to put it. Like he's masking the really dark things with softness but overdoing it, I'm not sure I can trust his… softness and kindness… I just don't know anything any more. This is such a mess. I feel shoved away. Why does he do that?"

"This might sound a bit odd, but maybe he's unconsciously testing you."

"What?"

"Maybe he just tries to test your genuineness, wants to be sure you really have forgiven him… how deep he can rely on you. Maybe he is testing your will to stay, testing your will to keep up with him. I am also quite sure he is really ashamed."

"Ashamed?"

"Yep. Ashamed and angry with himself, that he failed to see this coming."

"Oh. Not sure about that."

"Oh, hang on. Do you remember how you felt when you came back from Afghanistan?"

"Hff, of course I do. How could I forget that?"

"Hey, don't get this wrong, I'm just asking to make us understand, go with me. Do you think he feels like that?"

"What?… Not sure. No… it was not that his life and career was taken away, and not that he suffered permanent injuries to his mind and body. He can have his job back - his 'career' if you want to put it that way - is still there. I think that is the most important thing to him, his work."

"John, I… think this might be... the anger speaking… He threw away his career to save you and his friends. Sure, he has it back, but… are you granting him the right to be as bad as you were when you came back? Lost, not sure how to go on, having lost friends, feeling useless? He might experience those things different, but I think they are as devastating as your experiences were."

"What makes you think I don't?" John asked softly.

"Well, just wondering if you grant him the same level of sorrow. You're a selfless friend here, trying to rescue that friendship. But so is he, in his own way. I think he was a loyal friend who knowingly killed his reputation, left to protect the things he most cared about, and I might add that his level of loyalty is even alarming. But right now he is a man who is only able to see the _bad_ things, the tiny bit of rejection and anger that still exists in you. He can't see the 98 percent of friendship and love and care you give him, because he is depressed. He might be not able to receive it. You had to learn to see such things in therapy, right. He doesn't even know he has to look out for those or that this is part of his problem."

"And he'll probably scold my 'sentiment' and tell me it's rubbish if I try to explain that – before he runs away."

"Then we need to gently foist it to him - in a way he doesn't even know its happening."

"Good luck trying that with Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh, I think it'll work splendidly, we just need to do it in a way so he thinks it's _his_ idea. Let me try. I'm in a different position. He doesn't know me that well."

She nudged him and dragged his sleeve.

"Come on, lie down, I think we have spilled enough guts here."

John grunted as he moved into a supine position.

When they lay next to each other again in the dark, Mary on her side, she stroked his head, in a firm and reassuring way. She leaned her head against his shoulder.

"I love you," John whispered and she answered by kissing his temple.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was actually the second one I wrote for this story a long time ago, the story then kind of evolved around it. Originally I planned theses events to be in the beginning of the story, but then it felt too early and I had problems with this kind of confrontation and was really not sure about it. So I just shoved it (together with the first one I wrote) in front of me the whole time, never sure it was the right moment to put it in. Well, here it is. I'm still very insecure about it being out of character or stupid.  
> It's really difficult for me to write John and Mary, and especially having such a conversation.


	64. Tuesday - around 2am - Sherlock's POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is startled by John's scream and stumbles into a bit of a flashback.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

 

"SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock jumped up from the kitchen table, where he had sat staring down his microscope in deep concentration.

He knew _that_ scream.

He knew _that_ voice in _that_ tone, that _exact_ intonation of his name.

The memory of it was carved painfully deep into his innermost soul, burned into his mind and still a raw spot.

Was he suffering from another attack or flashback or had he really heard that?

Suddenly the reality of the kitchen was overwritten with elements of the memory of the moment when he had heard John scream.

It was when he had jumped from the roof of Barts.

Blood was running down the side of his face, tingling.

The excitement of the plan, the things that had just happened on the roof.

The utter panic in which John had yelled that single word into the emptiness that was underneath him while he felt himself falling.

Moriarty was wrong.

Falling didn't feel like flying.

It felt like dying.

He had forgotten how it smelled, until now, how being this close to someone putting a gun into the mouth and blowing his brains out smelled.

The odour of blood and gun powder… and a hint of open cavity surgery.

John's scream - simultaneously the feeling of falling - had surprised him… badly, had shaken him… to a degree that filled him with horrified bewilderment.

Then he was on the wet pavement, trying to steel himself for the confrontation that was only moments away.

Again, the smell of blood was present - now his own, from a blood donation bag, spread across his face by some of his helpers, to ensure it all seemed real and passed tests for his DNA.

Nausea welled up and brought his body's perception back, with a gasp he returned to the reality of the kitchen.

Had he imagined the scream?

Was it just a memory running wild?

Before he had made the actual decision he was halfway up the stairs to John's room.

When he heard the voices from upstairs he stopped dead in his tracks.

John must have had a nightmare.

He needed to make sure his flatmate was okay, now that he was able to actually respond to John's desperation.

This time he could answer to that distressed yell, make sure to tell John that it was all a lie.

 _Now_ he could do it.

While hunting on his own he had wished on several occasions that he could have eased John's horror, it had haunted him.

Almost upstairs he heard Mary's voice.

"John? John… it's okay, you're safe, we are fine, Sherlock is alive. It's okay!… It's okay!" she tried to ground her partner, her voice clearly harried.

Sherlock froze.

Right.

Mary was here. She was taking care of John now, he no longer had any right to do so.

John would probably throw a fit if he entered, some privacy nonsense.

He wanted to - he needed to - but he was two years too late for that.

Mary was what John wanted now, he was no longer in demand.

There was movement and John was panting.

"Darling, don't hold this back. If you need to let this out then just do it."

Sherlock held his breath.

Was she really suggesting he needed to cry?

What good would that do?

Then it hit him like a mental punch.

John must be really bad, distressed, panicking.

He made another step towards the door.

A broken noise that made Sherlock flinch was all that could be heard for some long moments.

"Come on, relax," he heard Mary urge.

Another long silence.

Then muffled silent words, too low to be understood, followed by normal speech.

"Just tell me what you told Ella, can you do that?"

"What good will that do?" John asked back, formulating Sherlock's exact thoughts.

"I'll be able to understand, assist, be a reassuring presence… and besides I want to know when you feel bad and why."

Sherlock felt something odd when he heard Mary say it, the reasoning was kind of strange, but he had heard it before. Some people claimed that talking about the obvious caused some people to feel better. He had always been sure and glad this didn't apply to him and John.

Was this what John needed now?

He had changed. Things had changed.

Sherlock felt replaced and unneeded, in fact he was even the cause of John's distress. He had destroyed the most precious thing in his life: John's friendship.

He was an idiot… and he didn't deserve friends, probably the rest of the world had understood that long ago and therefore he never had friends before John.

Mary would be better for John, better than he could ever be.

Then John spoke.

"The first days I was here, I thought we were making progress, he showed trust, he let me in, talked a bit… but now… it's like he has made a step back away from me, the distance growing bigger every day. Like… he doesn't trust me any longer. It's… I don't know, I fear he'll do things again without telling me, and I suppose that's why I re-experience how he jumped in my sleep again."

So, it _was_ his doing, _his_ fault.

He had caused John pain, constant pain since he came back, and now caused nightmares to rekindle, too.

Recently, he had learned how those _really_ felt.

Not the occasional bad dream a person had, _this_ was so much worse than he had ever imagined nightmares could be. In his opinion the word even needed a new definition because the fact that those the two things had the same name was absolutely misleading. The new form of nightmares had started during his time away and he had dreamt of that roof-scene, too.

"You dreamt about the Fall," Mary said, stating the obvious.

"Yeah, was more like the exact memory of what happened."

Sherlock winced inwardly, he didn't want to hear this on one hand, but he also needed to on the other.

"We talked, he said goodbye, standing on the rim. When he threw away his phone I screamed up at him, but he just... jumped. He just…"

When John's voice caught the sensation of pressure in Sherlock's head rose profoundly, and there was another feeling climbing up his throat. He wouldn't be able to hold that back for long.

Must be grief.

"Maybe I am afraid he'll do it again. Maybe I don't trust him to keep himself alive."

So not only he wasn't sure he could trust himself, but John also didn't trust him.

Probably no one did. Therefore there was no chance to regain anything that had been good in life before the fall.

Trust and affection were so very fragile, and he was quite clumsy when it came to human affection and interaction.

As a child his inability to handle it had haunted him, until he had decided to listen to Mycroft and just ignore it. His brother had seen how he suffered from other people and had suggested he just stopped caring and never get involved with others any deeper than a platonic work relationship.

It had been idiotic to hope he'd manage now.

But at least now he knew it was his own fault, it was much easier to hate and blame and punish himself, rather than everybody else - which was also a socially and legally questionable course of action. He had been told so often he was the faulty one, that the rest of the world was right.

Well, now at least he had final proof.

He was wrong.

He had always been wrong.

How had he managed to be so stupid not to see it?

And John was the one who suffered from his stupidity. Because John did care and if he cared at all about John he should have deduced and prevented that.

He should have protected John, because that was what friends should do, protect people.

But he had enjoyed being liked and stepped into the trap of feeling good with another person around who seemed to understand him.

He should have known, even if John hadn't.

Had he longed for company so much that the need had blinded him?

He should have know. 

The sense memory of John holding his wrist in a vice grip invaded his mind without warning, another memento, that made the scene rush back into his reality.

He tried to fight it and rubbed his wrist but it was hard.

It had been the only contact that was established, and it was like a lifeline and like the worst touch he had ever endured.

It had hurt physically and mentally, felt cruel.

The memory took over and he was suddenly lying on the pavement.

He felt the distress grow, which made the whole thing much more difficult. He'd blow the whole operation to hell if anyone saw he was actually not dead. If he failed and flinched it would kill John.

He needed to get a grip on this!

His heartbeat was so intense it must be the cause of the nausea.

He had not seen _this_ coming.

John's touch had been cold and trembling, must be going into shock. He felt it, this tiny enormous touch.

He had foreseen it would happen, therefore the ball under his armpit.

But he hadn't expected the impact it had on his own body or his soul.

His transport reacted with anxiety, something he was not really used to, he needed to endure the whole situation, manage to keep it under control.

It proved to be very hard.

The water from the pavement soaked through his coat and he started to feel it seep into his back. Physical coldness added to the mental one.

Quite inconvenient. The absurdity of the situation was grave and had a really bad bright grey taste.

John's desperate moans made his heartbeat pick up speed.

"No, god no…"

John didn't let go of his wrist and the grip turned into something painful. Sherlock saw - out of the corner of his eyes - people were trying to drag John away, but the doctor didn't want to let go.

A siren started howling in the distance.

That situation was over, he was not there any longer!

He had tagged several bad memories with reminders that he had lived through them already and that therefore they were in the past. This was actually the first time it worked as planned, reminding him to re-enter reality.

When he finally managed, the memory of the touch stayed.

Back then it had for days, months, and he still could recall how the echo actually felt, it was almost laughable, like a phantom pain-touch.

He was on the stairs, the smell of the staircase unique.

Since his return John had extraordinary often felt for his pulse.

At first, Sherlock had assumed the reason was that the doctor needed to reassure himself Sherlock was alive, needed to counteract his own memory of feeling for something that wasn't there, the gentle throbbing of the blood vessel. Therefore he had endured it, hoping it was helpful for John.

When it happened repeatedly, he found it was also quite interesting for himself. The touch was warm and felt save… and like home, like a peace offering, like a small bit of being forgiven… and cared for and... soothed.

Physical contact with John had always been different. In contrast to other people's touch it had been neutral, when usually touch was bad and made him shiver from repulsion. Over time it had even shifted from a neutral zone to a positive one.

One night during his stay in Tibet - he had been on what might be called a bed, trying to think - when the memory of the touch at his pulse point was suddenly there and he wondered if John's soul was reaching out to him or if it was just him regretting his friend's absence.

Missing John had unsettled him that night, it had even caused physical pain, his temples and intestines were tense and plagued him with burning and other irritating sensations.

The next morning a monk had taken him away from the group, stating he needed 'healing'. He had tried to refuse, but they seemed to know better. He even wondered why they hadn't already thrown him out, seeing through his cover.

During the cleansing rituals that followed he had been surprised by the healer. The man had deduced _him_ , which had left him in awe and a bit amused, but what impressed Sherlock the most - and he had to admit being impressed was quite a rare occurrence - was the aura the man carried with him. Sherlock could physically sense it, like an area of denser softer air.

In the following weeks the monks not only helped him with his goals but also took intensive care of Sherlock's physical needs, he was in fact freeing them of a heavy burden. Though Sherlock tried to wind out of their care at first, he soon felt that his body was reacting in a positive way.*

"He isn't. He probably senses your anger and is afraid you'll reject him," Mary's voice jerked him back to the present.

At least she seemed to understand him a bit sometimes.

He continued to listen, it was strenuous.

"Well, on the outside he's an odd mixture of a - kind of - sentimental or nostalgic or whatever façade and behind that he is as distant as he was when I first met him. Not letting anyone in."

Sherlock's brain started to buzz. They were deducing him.

This was awkward. He should leave.

But if he did he'd never figure this out. He'd never solve it.

"So, yes, you are, John! Some aspect of you is still angry with him. You don't want to be, but a small part of you is still really angry…."

"I don't know, maybe... I'm… just still so very shocked, bewildered and… wounded that he _really_ did this to me... That he did something this profoundly and doesn't even understand what he has done. This hurts more than anything. I feel… betrayed, and used, and unwanted, and… like all I ever did had no meaning to him at all. Like he showed me how useless I am and that I don't count at all. I know it's not true. I want him back in my life but… this is lingering, the same feelings I had about him committing suicide, the same betrayal."

So it was true, what he had feared, that John had only _said_ he had forgiven him, but in reality he was still very angry and just covered it up. Sherlock knew John was bitter about being deceived, but he was better bitter than dead. 

Why was John here then, pretending to care?

Out of pity or…?

Whatever.

"You try to hide it, and in general you're doing good, but to him and to me… we can sense it. I am sure he doesn't know how to handle that. He doesn't even understand it fully, though he understands it's his fault," Mary explained.

So Mary blamed him, too. They were all blaming him.

How had he been such an idiot? Hoping they'd see beyond this, understand the greater good?

Well, superficially it was true, it _was_ his fault.

He had blown it all to hell, the only good thing that existed in his life: John.

Sherlock decided he had heard enough, this was awful.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:  
> * If I identified it right, the monastery shown in the mini-episode is actually in Nepal, it must be Thyangboche (Tengboche) Monastery with the Ama Dablam in the Background, near the Everest, not sure though, I've never been to the Everest Region, too many tourists.   
> But I hiked up the footpath that leads from Pothana (near Pokhara, Nepal) to the Annapurna and Machhapuchare Base Camps, if you take a turn at the right spot (Deurali) that path heads up towards Tibet, though it might take a few more days to get up there.   
> It was both the most awesome and most difficult journey of my life (hyperactive sensory reception and Nepal are a quite… interesting combination) ... and it was physically challenging as well, I went without a guide because I felt I needed to do this alone and because I am no good with people.


	65. Tuesday - Sherlock's POV - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is desperate to escape his turmoil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.
> 
> Well, I can't sleep (it is 4:41 in the morning), so I'm here and giving this chapter the final touch. My mood is quite dark right now, too. Be aware.

 

 

Sherlock decided he had heard enough, this was awful. He turned and very slowly – and as silent as possible - made his way down the stairs, aware of Mary's soothing voice.

John seemed to need quite some time to get his composure back.

The turmoil inside his mind had risen during the past minutes. Not only had he suffered from panic caused by John's scream, but now he was unsettled and trembling. He felt his body react to his mind with sensations he didn't like.

He _needed_ this to stop or he'd go mad.

It felt like reality was slipping away, like being caught in a nightmare, that was turning into reality.

He couldn't stand this any longer.

He had no right to hope for forgiveness.

Why should people forgive him?

He indeed would stumble into things like this again. He had all his life, no matter how many rules he configured for human interaction, it was always wrong. The more work he seemed to put into it, the more it went all wrong.

Human nature was just too complex to manage with a database, no matter how well maintained.

He was a failure, every normal human being could manage those things to a certain degree, but he just kept blundering, no matter how good his intentions were.  

Since he was a child he had know that compensating his lack of understanding of human nature wouldn't really work. But parents and teachers had encouraged him and told him to give it time, he'd manage, it would work out fine. But he knew when he was seven this was piling up into a real problem. Since then he had worked on building a database dedicated to compensating by knowledge, but now he finally realised there was just no way.

He'd always drive the tiny amount of positive things in life away with his interpersonal incompetence.

Desperation about this insight made him feel worse.

But it didn't really matter. He deserved to feel bad.

Sherlock re-entered the kitchen, his heart was beating painfully, he was soaked in sweat and shivering. 

The scream had unearthed his own memories of the Fall, very unpleasant.

He remembered his dream from a week ago, when he had watched John fall to death from the roof of Bart's.

Had it really only been a week, it felt like a lifetime.

New distress blossomed when he just thought of the _name_ of said place.

This felt bad; it was sucking away all the warmth - that meant living - out of him, draining his energy away.

His thoughts were once more moving in endless circles and spirals, and not growing forwards as they should be to be productive and interesting.

Thinking was compromised.

Also, his body felt disgusting.

He wanted _out_.

Felt like mental itching.

Everything was tweaking and his skin felt as raw as his consciousness, hearing was almost painful, although there were almost no noises, just the main street in the distance, his breathing and his steps. He could barely tolerate the small noises of his movements, they grated on his nerves, more than that, they were too loud.

Vibrations of traffic outside rose even more when he reached the bottom of the stairs, it made him feel like he needed to kick something - hard.

He wanted out.

Not feeling, not sensing, no nothing.

He was so very tired... beyond tired even.

But trying to sleep in this state would unfold more bad memories he couldn't keep contained at the moment.

He made it to the hallway between the kitchen and the bathroom, there he had to lean against the wall to keep himself upright.

Slowly, he closed his room's door after him, stood there in the middle of the dark room, feeling like his pain receptors were firing so much he wasn't even eager to sit down, fearing it would hurt.

But it wasn't pain perception, it was mental anguish, wasn't it?

At this moments he felt more defective than he had ever before in his entire life.

He should have stayed away from John.

John would be so much better now without him.

By simply reappearing he had hurt John.

He had had no right to do this.

How had he been so blasé to assume coming back was a good idea?

Back then he had been sure John would be happy to have him back, but the other man had moved on and was just pretending to want him back out of pity and loyalty.

He felt dizzy, not really sure what was happening, just that if felt bad.

Distraught, heavy, sick and… at the end of the line.

The trembling was his body reacting to his mind, and it was getting worse.

It was pathetic - again.

He couldn't do this anymore...

These thoughts would make him get insane, so inefficient and...  he needed them to _stop_.

They felt like they were his own but some aspect of them felt also foreign.

Just stop!

He didn't know what to do.

The door to his room was ajar and

The turmoil made him stagger, his knees hit the ground in front of his bed.

He knew there were heavy duty emotions at work inside him, but he had no clue at all what they were.

All he knew it that they are so intense it is a struggle not to lose the connection to his body.

But that would be good, he had wished for that, though not like this. This felt like losing himself.

It feels bad, so intense, malfunctioning.

A storm he knew he can't weather.

He had experienced this feeling before, when it was clear he'd lose the game, he'd die.

Like when he had been in the cellar and finally realised that he couldn't go on, that his body would give up, the strain too much, nothing left to fight with. That he wouldn't get out of that filthy room alive.

The renewed panic was as ugly as it had been the first time.

He fought to get himself back to his feet, then hit the light switch harder than necessary. The room was suddenly bathed in a soft orange light.

Afraid that he might get sick he stumbled back into the bathroom.

He needed to get away!

Have a break…

A pause to recuperate...

To use the emergency cord.

When his gaze fell onto the bath in the light that shone in from his room he really made the final decision - he had feared this was where he had been heading for days.

There it was, his escape route.

The morphine was in the maintenance hatch of the bathtub.

Why _not_ use it?

Before, he hadn't wanted to use it, but now…

Now...

He sucked in air in frustration.

 _Now_ he wanted it, wanted peace and quiet and rest.

He deserved some relief after all he had been through.

It hadn't been easy and…

It didn't matter any longer, the reason he had recoiled before.

The reason was no longer there, John would soon be lost.

So trying not to hurt him was no longer relevant.

He'd marry Mary and forget about him in a few weeks.

Maybe the painful termination of their relationship would shorten when John realised he was taking drugs again.

It would be better for them both.

He'd be so angry he'd leave.

It would at least be over fast.

With shaking hands he knelt down and fetched the hidden screwdriver from the cabinet under the sink.

He opened the hatch and with clumsy fingers, dragged the package out from between the old tubing.

He had the syringes out before he knew what he was doing, when he finally did realise he shoved the qualms away immediately.

No longer relevant!

 _Nothing_ mattered any longer.

John didn't want him back anyway.

Mycroft was right, every heart was broken, everything died, it was all futile, caring was not an advantage, it only meant suffering and dread.

He was angry at himself for everything that had gone wrong. He wouldn't feel this bad right now if he had never allowed himself to taste companionship.

Before he had known it, it hadn't been so hard to endure it's absence, but now that he knew it and it was gone, it felt far worse. He should have stayed away from it.

Was this caring?

No, caring was for another person's sake, this was purely on his side.

Was he overreacting?

He knew he was depressed and parts of this sounded more like the depression talking than himself, but he was unable to sort this out.

John wouldn't be here if he didn't care. He usually acted honestly and straight forward, like punching him or yelling at him when he was angry.

But even if all his current thoughts were the depression speaking, the ups and downs of those made him go mad, the inconsistency and the doubts and his own stupidity.

Part of him was dying and he couldn't handle the agony it suffered while doing so. 

It was all too much, he wanted this to stop!

Evade Mycroft's cameras, do it in the bathroom.

He locked the door.

Intravenous injection worked immediately and increased the risk of addiction because of the pleasant rush it caused, so intramuscularly injection would probably be the better choice, because it would give him about fifteen minutes until it started to kick in, enough time to get into bed on steady looking feet and without causing suspicion to anyone who might be watching.

He decided to use his thigh, upper arm was too much work and too easy to spot.

He sat on the toilet seat and filled the syringe with a normal dose, no need to use too much because he wasn't any longer used to it, classical overdose cause.

After recapping the needle and sterilising the site, he carefully stored away the paraphernalia, back into the hatch. Then he swiftly injected the medication into his upper thigh.

He put the used syringe into the hiding place, too, then closed the lid.

To bed then...

He had to concentrate to stand securely.

The aftershocks of the…

What was it?

A light flashback probably…

And what he had just experienced… and maybe even from the shock of what he had just done.

Disturbing.

No, it was disturbing how much it all affected his body.

He used to loo; he wouldn't be able to get up later.

Something in the back of his mind whispered that he needed to make sure this was an exception and he huffed in annoyance.

It didn't matter. Where were those ideas coming from?

Right, it must be the 'protect- John-routine' still running in the background.

He started to go after it to erase it, but then he found he couldn't.

It was a deep interference and he should probably not do this in his current state, he'd mess things up.

What was he afraid off? _Everything_ was messed up already, it didn't matter any longer. Nothing mattered.

While he tried to gather enough concentration to walk to his bed without incidents he stood motionless in the bathroom for some long moments.

The curves of the tabs were reflecting the light from his room and the distances between the basin and the furniture felt different although he knew they were exactly the same as they had always been.

When had this room become so alienated?

It _was_ his own flat.

It didn't feel like before any longer.

He needed to stop those thoughts!

With stubborn determination he entered his room. His dressing gown fell to the ground, then he allowed himself to fall into the bed.

It felt good under him and he wondered if any bed in his life had ever felt this good as this felt now. The positive sensation made him flinch.

During his hiatus he had imagined he'd be home in this very bed, safe and sound, to distract himself from camping in some rainy Russian outskirts or some Asian tundra.

This was the only place he had liked to sleep all his life. No other bedroom had ever felt like home.

But now that he was here, he felt like an intruder.

The bed smelled like home and the duvet was soft and cosy.

It felt good, warm and save, as it had before, but it was now besmirched with his failure. The whole flat was.

For now he decided he needed to remember how it had felt before the Fall.

Distress rose when something told him even those memories were lost forever.

His pain was robbing him of breath.

Slowly, he curled into a ball and pulled the duvet over his head, concentrating on breathing and on keeping his face uncovered.

It lasted an eternity until finally something shifted, a sensation he had waited for and when it finally started to feel the tiniest bit of good he sighed.

But that was it, it only started, then it stagnated, it didn't seem to work.

Had he been given a diluted solution?

Another three minutes of desperately waiting later it was suddenly possible to shove away the distress.

Like it had been in Baskerville when John had taken care of him, when he had a panic attack.* John had been patient and understanding and it had all felt safe and home and dark red.

He decided to concentrate on shoving the bad memories away and recalling more good things, forcing his body to relax, when the nausea hit him. Although it had been present for the past hour, it suddenly rose and interfered with that plan to unwind.

He groaned.

Of course, after such a long episode of abstinence he'd suffer from the initial side-effects, had happened before.

He blinked when he realised the medication must be starting to take effect already, he hadn't eaten, which was probably speeding things up a bit.

 It was a known side effect he had experienced before, but somehow he had ignored the knowledge. Desperately, he dialled his body's perception down.

But some horror kept lurking somewhere and he felt he was no longer able to keep it at bay, it threatened to overwhelm him. He needed to keep it caged until he was out. He could not handle it.

He just tried to breathe once more.

It was quite slow, which made it a different experience than he was used to. He was desperately waiting for release, his jaw clenched and his mind was struggling not to give into the panic attack that was still only kept at bay by his conscious will.

It was annoying how long it took.

Ten desperate and horrible minutes later the drug finally started to work as expected, but it would be another thirty minutes until the peak would be reached. Already a bit out he cursed about his decision, he should have put it into the vein.

Sensations started to become more unsteady and exaggerated.

Then - it should have happened ages ago - something warm started to hum somewhere.

Finally!

The humming moved into his body, then floored his mind.

He surrendered to it, welcoming it.

In the end it just swapped over him and graciously took him out of his misery.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * This refers to my story 'Keeping the panic at bay', not to what was actually shown in the episode, feel free to check it out. :)


	66. Tuesday - afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary confronts Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

 

John rose with Mary early the next morning, not able to get back to sleep after the alarm woke them. The aftermath of the past night was immediately present even before he was fully awake. Instead of  depressive pondering while trying to get back to sleep he got up. His plan for the day was helping Sherlock with the case, although he had no idea yet how to do that.

But when he came downstairs Sherlock was nowhere to be found. He tensed immediately, until he found the note that said:

'I'm at Scotland Yard. Back at noon, Mycroft will visit.'

When did he leave and why this early?

John wondered if the message meant that he was evading his brother or if he was notifying him that he'd be back for that. At least his former flatmate _had_ left a note this time.

Mary frowned at the sheet of paper but left for work, without commenting.

 

After breakfast the doctor lay down on the sofa to nap until Sherlock came back. Although he had lost a lot of sleep recently and exhaustion was making his eyelids uncomfortably heavy, sleep didn't come.

 To calm his mind he send a text to the detective.

'Anything interesting? JW'

The answer came a few moments later, 'No.'

It didn't make him happy, but the fact how fast it came, and that it came at all, eased his mind. On one hand, John was getting worried about the frequent visits of the older Holmes,  was glad the man was showing he cared, and on the other, he somehow lifted a bit of the weight from John's shoulders by having an eye on his brother and getting after him when John couldn't.

Last night he had informed the couple that the flat would be under observation at night, to make sure Sherlock didn't leave unnoticed. John was quite sure Sherlock would be able to evade being seen if he wanted to and therefore wondered if this was a waste of time.

He must have finally drifted off, because the next thing he knew were steps on the stairs.

Sherlock stormed in cursing his brother and John needed quite some time to wake up enough to understand that his temporary flatmate was angry to be under surveillance. John noticed he must have slipped into deep sleep because he really had a hard time waking up. He just listened to Sherlock's ranting and nodded here and there and tried to hide the fact that he was glad they at least tried to keep an eye on him. He distantly recognised that something was different about Sherlock's aura, but he was too tired to grasp it.

When he was awake enough to try to figure out what was off, Sherlock had retreated into the bathroom and was showering.

 

"Our colonel was caught today erasing files from a military server," Mycroft started only moments after he had entered the living room.

"What kind of files?" Sherlock came out of his room with wet hair and clad in a fresh dressing gown.

"We don't know yet. We are a bit surprised that he did it from work. Quite stupid," the older Holmes turned towards him and when his gaze fell onto his younger brother he frowned.

Sherlock didn't look up to greet him while he adjusted the belt and John became more aware of Sherlock's soft tone.

The brothers ignored the necessity of greetings or introductions on a regular basis, they often seemed to continue a conversation that had been started somewhere else. As if one just switched into their channel.

John had found that quite strange in the beginning, and needed several months to actually understand they just did this. Though Mycroft tried to set his brother an example on many things, the necessary greeting rituals were only executed with strangers, he couldn't be bothered. Overall the former soldier found it kind of funny, especially after Sherlock had explained to him - when asked about it - that it was kind of a compliment, to be so close to not need stupid greetings and unnecessary rituals. He explained he'd only do this with people that were really close and that it underlined the closeness. With John's military background - where saluting had seemed to grow into his very existence - this was an interesting thought. From then on he had an eye on it and found out Sherlock did that with him, too, he just hadn't noticed before.

"I might have damaged his WiFi… in a way that prevents all computers from using the connection, though the network itself states if works perfectly fine," Sherlock put on the kettle.

"Why would you do that?" John asked.

"To force him to do online-things from work, not the security of home," Sherlock's tone implied he should have known himself.

"Oh, that's clever," John praised, ignoring the insulting tone.

As if on cue Mycroft's phone rang and he picked up immediately. After about five minutes - in which they listened carefully - he finished the call and started to explain.

"He's in custody, refuses to talk. I'll be informed if he talks."

"What did he delete?" Sherlock wanted to know.

"Wow, not so fast. Why is he in custody?" John wanted to know, but was ignored.

"That's where it gets odd. He deleted hundreds of little files containing things that seemed to be absolute nonsense," Mycroft elaborated.

"Something connected to his son?"

"Oddly, his son's old files were not there any longer, probably he deleted those earlier, but there's nothing in the log that indicated they were actually deleted. They are just not there."

"Maybe he's just good with computers?" John suggested.

"Don't be ridiculous, no one who's good with computers does criminal activities from work when his home WiFi fails."

"No, he deleted files that seem to have no connection at all to his son."

"Bring copies," Sherlock said.

"I will. He'll stay in custody for 48 hours, and you need to find something until then, that's all I can do," Mycroft turned towards the door, but demonstratively looked up and down his brother.  For a moment he seemed to struggle with himself, taking breath but then only said, "Call me," and vanished.

"Sure," Sherlock rolled his eyes, then turned away from John, too and made himself tea.

The doctor had no time to ask more questions because the next moment Mrs Hudson was there and ran around the flat.

"Have any of you red laundry?… I can't fill my machine."

"There are some shirts, but they are clean, if it doesn't matter feel free to use them," Sherlock spoke absentmindedly while standing next to the table and skipping through the newspaper.

She playfully slapped this hip with a dishtowel and laughed, John grinned about the familiar interaction. The housekeeper was the only one who managed to lighten Sherlock's mood a tiny bit at the moment. He was eased with the fact that it was even possible, but it only lasted a few moments, because the next the contrast between Sherlock's tired looks and slightly puffy eyes and his friendly and relaxed behaviour felt odd.

"Go get the laundry," she ordered and he headed into his room while sipping the tea.

John went to check his room, too.

Half an hour later Mary called and asked him to come to the clinic, two doctors had become  sick. The recent flu epidemic that always hit London at this season had hit them during the morning and a cover was needed. She had arranged to come home in two hours because there were enough nurses. So, John asked Mrs Hudson to keep an eye on the detective in the meantime.

 

Mary came home and Mrs Hudson was barely down the stairs when she started washing up. Sherlock was sitting at his laptop reading emails. It went on like this for almost an hour, but then Mary appeared in front of him and spoke, in a soft and kind voice.

"Sherlock, you are hurting John!"

"What?" Sherlock, not happy about getting jumped like this, frowned.

They had barely talked during the past hour, but now this poured out of Mary.

"Shoving him away and keeping him in the dark is making him worse."

John had said that before. He had stored that information already.

"You want to evade confronting him, and you want to keep things to yourself because they are ugly, but he might be the only person who could actually understand and help. You're hiding. And - as before - hiding from him is bad for the both of you. I'm waiting for you to understand that."

Sherlock huffed, annoyed about her deducing abilities. She was wrong, wasn't she?

"I don't want to talk about that."

"Well, I know, that's exactly my point. If it would only concern you, it'd be your decision, but this is affecting both of you and I need to protect John. He had enough misery for a lifetime, already. Besides, we are not talking about it, I'm just informing you. Open up to John!"

"How am I supposed to do that?" when he said it he realised some aspect of him obviously wanted it. He had not aimed to go into that direction, especially not with Mary… and especially not after last night.

He was still kind of messed up with the aftermath, his mind fuzzy around the edges. He was also still horrified by his own behaviour, some aspect of him couldn't believe he had really been so stupid. But although he despised his own desperation and hopelessness, they were  still present enough that he was very aware why he had made that choice… and afraid he might make it again soon.

"Yeah, I know you can't just go to him and say 'hi, we need to talk about it.' You obviously need someone to initiate it and probe."

Now, he was getting annoyed, did she just suggest he was relying and using other people like this? Like a dumb teenage girl in need of attention?

"No, I know you are not able to break this wall from the inside, and you don't want anybody to come in, but you want him to be in there. All I'm asking is that if he starts poking and asking how you feel and what is happening, that you don't shove him away. Just answer. Don't boycott his tries to built a John-sized door into that wall."

"I don't need help!"

He felt dissected.

How did she manage to answer to his thoughts? No one should see through him like this, it wasn't an option.

"I beg to differ, but that's not the point. The point is that John needs help. And you could help him, you did it before. It would make him feel less bad if you'd gift him with trust. It would soothe the raw wound of being shut out before, would contradict his issues with having been left behind."

Sherlock frowned. She was right, when he recalled John's outer appearance in the last few days… he didn't look good. He had made the same mistake he always accused other people of doing, that they see, but not observe.

"Hey," she stepped nearer, "I'm not saying this to make you feel bad. I'm just trying to make this easier on you both. We talked about this already on Friday, do you remember?"

"I'm not an imbecile."

"Didn't say you were. But did you actually understand what I meant?"

"Yes."

"But you don't believe me? Or you just can't bring yourself to do it? To let him in? I know you have done this before, just do it again. You know how to do it, the basic setting is there, you just need to start executing. Just comply. Follow his lead."

"That is…"

"… making you feel exposed? Vulnerable?"

Sherlock grimaced.

"It's normal to feel vulnerable in this situation, John does too. But he's here nevertheless, fully aware that this could hurt him even more than your first suicide did."

"I don't do vulnerable."

"You know vulnerable is usually the state where you are _not_ in control, that is why one is vulnerable. 'Not doing it' is kind of nonsense, because if you could change it, you wouldn't be vulnerable at all. Being in control is the opposite," she lectured him.

"Sherlock, you feel exposed, so is he. If you don't protect each other's wounds now it might be too late. Luckily you're able to heal some of his pains, so do it for god's sake. Don't let him suffer any more. God, he needs you. You did the Fall to save him, now finish it. Save him, don't stop in the middle, because this is what Moriarty planned to do. Hurt you both, damage your friendship irreparably. Saving him includes getting this friendship back on line. If you don't you've stopped before the finish line and failed, although you were almost there and it was in reach."

Sherlock frowned once more. This was an odd way to see things, but she was right.

His gaze flickered through the room, he ran through every potentiality of proving that her statement might be right or wrong.

Finally the chances she was right turned out to be 78 to 16…

Wait, where were the missing percent?

"Do it thorough. Go on. Fix this," she interrupted his calculations.

"I don't know how to _fix_ things like this," he hissed.

"Oh, Sherlock, that's what I'm trying to tell you! How to fix it, so just try, please, for all our sake. All you need to do is open up to him, don't shove him away. To get his full trust back you need to trust him first."

Sherlock swallowed, so John was not trusting him?

Something started to feel bad in the area of his solar plexus.

"Hang on, don't get me wrong. He trusts you with a lot of things, but the one thing he can't trust you with, is to _not hurt him_ again in the same way. Right now you are confirming that confiding in you with this particular issue is indeed the wrong decision. Don't make him feel like this. Allow him to get his confidence back."

Sherlock felt shame now. It crashed against his being like an acid yellow wave, making his mind stagger.

"You're his friend for god's sake, now start to behave like one."

"He doesn't deserve bad company. I'm not good for him."

"Oh, yes you are… overall."

"If I was, he wouldn't have been on my bed with the violin and the…" he stopped when he saw her expression.

What was it?

Surprise?

"Hang on, when did that happen?"

She didn't know? John hadn't told her?

"What happened on your bed? When?"

That was anxiety in her tone, wasn't it?

This was getting dangerous, he needed to stir out of this, he had blundered.

Weren't married people supposed to know about each other, why didn't John tell her?

"He was really bad with grief after I was gone. He cried."

Mary seemed kind of relieved about his answer.

"He probably did that on a daily basis, that's what grief does. He was severely depressed and lost his best friend. What else happened?"

"I… He cried on _my_ bed," Sherlock tried to downplay it*.

"Well, that shows how deeply he was hurt, I guess," her voice was wavering a bit, probably in sympathy. "And it underlines what I'm trying to say, actually. You need to keep him from losing you again. He wouldn't survive it."

Was she suspecting what had also happened, or _did_ she know?

Also, another totally different thing sprang to his mind: she hadn't asked how _he_ knew.

Then Sherlock realised John might feel ashamed about that event, some things might need to stay private, even in a marriage.

He tagged the memory with a 'private'-label and decided to he needed to be careful what he revealed that might embarrass John.

"He's angry and it's his right," Sherlock tried to change the topic, now he felt quite ashamed about his weak moment last night.

In hindsight he didn't know what had come over him and he was disgusted by his own pathetic behaviour, but would it be enough to stay away from this kind of escape?

"Yes, Sherlock, but there are nuances to anger."

"Obviously, the level is high enough that he decided to hit me."

"The anger had that level back then at the restaurant, but now it is simmering at a quite low level, so low most people wouldn't even know it's still there. And it's _that_ low, because he understands that your intention for staging the Fall was to save him, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson."

"Really? What makes you say that?"

"I know. He told me."

"Why didn't he tell me?"

"I think he did and still does every day with his actions, but you don't see it. Also, he's hurting, and it's distracting him. And so are you. You two are ignoring the elephant in the room, aren't you? Dancing around it…"

"Sayings…"

"Sorry… It's a difficult topic and you're both eager to evade it. If you'd have listened he might have told you. If you had asked, he might have, too."

"I said repeatedly how sorry I was."

"Right, and that was good. If I may suggest something… As I said before, the best thing would be to actually ignore that small rest of the anger, but show clearly you are still sorry. Some things don't need to be said, but others do. Therefore I'll repeat: you are about to hurt John, quite intensely. I can't stand by and watch, so I'll say this exactly once: I'll never forgive you if you hurt him by taking drugs."

"What makes you think I…?"

"I threw out your stash."

"What?"

There was no denying then, or was she just bluffing?

"Seriously? You slept like a baby last night and I checked on you, the signs were quite obvious."

"You touched me?"

"I did. And I watched over you, making sure you didn't overdose."

He had no recollection of this, had she really or was she bluffing, waiting for him to reveal the facts himself?

"I'm willing to accept you were just so bad with what happened last night you needed relief, but it was the one and only time. You can _not_ hurt John like this on top of everything else. It would shove him over the edge."

"You threw out my…?"

"Well, yes, Sherlock, I did! Are you actually listening? Don't you dare to take anything else again. John is suffering enough, no need to bomb him into another crisis. I swear I'll kick your arse twenty times an hour if that is what you need to understand that you are digging his grave behaving like this. So get a grip and accept his help. If I ever see you take anything else I will tell him."

"Are you blackmailing me, now? So, what am I supposed to do?" his voice dripped with sarcasm.

"Maybe."

"Asking me to stay out of your beautifully domestic bliss? Threatening to tell him? To keep a distance? That was actually the point," he spit.

"Shit," the expression on her face showed that this hadn't been at all what she had aimed at, "Certainly not! I want you to be good to John, be a good friend. I want you to fix this friendship! He loves you like a brother and there is exactly one way to solve this situation, Sherlock."

"And what would that be?"

"You tell him."

"What?" he laughed scornfully.

Then realised she actually meant it.

"Why would I do that?"

"To demonstrate trust and care… and receive help. He needs to know you _want_ his help," her voice in contrast stayed calm and patient.

"I think I have clearly behaved in a way…"

"No, Sherlock, no! You didn't! He received that you are shoving him away, and frankly, I receive the same."

"It's hardly my fault you aren't willing to listen."

"Alright," she raised her hands in surrender. "You know what? I underestimated how lost you are with this. I'll tell you in detail, and you'll listen, because this obviously was perceived wrong: He needs you to _ask_ him for help."

"I did," Sherlock's tone softened a bit.

"No, you didn't, not with clear words at least."

"He should know without words."

"He does, but knowing and being asked is a very large difference. He needs to be _asked_ , with words, because that is what responsible adults do, asking for consent."

"That's ridiculous."

"God, no. There's quite a fine line between those two," Mary explained.

"But asking is… awkward and against the deeper…" he stopped, not knowing how to phrase this.

Had no one understood that he already did?

Not with words, but… he was sure his actions had shown that clearly, until a few days ago at least.

The idea to have to ask for it nagged at his trust, it was graceless and degrading… The fact that it was necessary to say it out loud in contrast to be understood without words was like a new wall building up, one that he thought they had torn down long ago.

Why the unnecessary ritual? He felt misunderstood and his ability to communicate compromised.

"Having to talk about this takes the last dignity I have away," he managed to put his thoughts into words roughly, and saw finally understanding dawn on her face, accompanied by quite a bit of shocked surprise.

"Oh,… I… guess I'm not sure I know what you mean, but John said something similar a few months ago about Ella… Okay… In this case asking is more than a ritual, he already tries to help you and give you what you need, you know that?"

Sherlock hesitated.

"That's why he is here, Sherlock."

"Yes."

"He's trying to give to you what you need."

"Yes."

"He's offering, but you need to officially accept," it was not really what she thought was needed, but close enough, "You need to signal your…"

"…surrender," he finished.

"No, you're _not_ surrendering, you are accepting an offer, admitting you need something."

"Same difference."

"Not for him. If you tell him you need his help it is the biggest offer of friendship you can make, the most profound proof of trust that you could give him."

When he just stared at her she frowned.

"Do you understand that?"

"No… Maybe."

"Well, than just store the information and do it. Go out there and tell him you took the morphine because you were desperate and that you're at the end of your tether and need help."

So she _knew_ , was not bluffing, otherwise she wouldn't have known it was morphine.

"And to eat humble pie will speed up being forgiven," she added.

"You are telling me he'll forgive me? I doubt that."

"Tell him honestly what and why and when… and that you can't do this alone."

"Are you suggesting to pull at his heartstrings? I won't."

"Certainly not… I'm telling you to trust him, trust his care and his affection. It's not that you actually really need to do something, just make the first step, then follow where he leads, just trust him."

"I…."

"You don't need to do this immediately, you probably need some time to wrap your mind around this, but I'll not wait forever. There is a point where I will tell him, if you don't. If I get the impression you don't care to do it, I will."

Sherlock's shoulders sagged.

This was awkward.

He felt misunderstood and she was using a childish provocation, but he realised she probably did because she felt out of options and was desperate, too.

"Just tell him about the morphine, say you're sorry and need help. He will take over, you just have to follow. Just do it, Sherlock," she repeated.

Sherlock hesitated, he doubted this was wise, John would probably punch him and yell. But on the other hand, he might as well try it, nothing to lose any longer, she was right.

"Please," she whispered.

She was begging?

This kind of shocked him, she wasn't the type… but it underlined the state of desperation everyone was in.

He looked down, it was the slightest bit of showing the beginning of agreeing, careful and not really sure yet, but she must have received he understood her.

She stepped closer to him and wrapped her arm around him.

"You can do this," then vanished down the stairs with a laundry basket, giving him space, which he really needed after this.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a very long and hard to write chapter, sorry it took a bit longer till I posted it.


	67. Tuesday evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> News about the case keep the boys busy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

Mary came down the stairs when John entered through the front door.

"Let's get some groceries," she suggested.

"Let me say 'hello' upstairs and then we can go. But…"

"No, John, wait, wait," she grabbed his sleeve as he stepped onto the first steps.

He narrowed his eyes.

"What happened?"

She slid into the coat that was over her arm and dragged him out of the front door.

"Come on," John's tone was getting unnerved.

She started to walk down the street, forcing him to follow.

When he caught up with her she started to speak in a low voice.

"I think I might have just kicked his ass quite hard, so… let's give him some time to let this sink in… and  - whatever you do - if he _does_ give you the slightest hint of opening up… approve it, respond, listen carefully…"

"Bloody hell, what did you do?" he wanted to know, his tone alarmed.

"I told him what I think. It was a bit like explaining emotions to a child. You were right, he sometimes just needs an explanation. Err… I feel a bit awkward about it, but hope my direct approach has educational value. I intentionally lost patience and _scolded_ him for being a bad friend."

Unconsciously the doctor had headed for the car, which he had just parked a few metres away. They wouldn't have the same luck later, to find an empty slot when the rush hour was over.

"Let's go by foot, I don't have the energy to search for a parking space later," he sighed.

"Okay," she closed her jacket, it was quite cold and it smelled as if might freeze again tonight.

"Do I have to watch the tablet while we are gone - and all night?" John asked.

"No. I kept a neutral tone. And when I went downstairs he was 'thinking'. We shouldn't take too long, though."

"How does scolding and neutral happen at once?"

"That's the trick that should make it work," she grinned while they headed down the street.

"Really? How did you manage that?"

"Practise."

"I'm not sure relying on a neutral tone works with Sherlock. He's very good reading between the lines, even when it comes to emotional stuff. Though he doesn't read with an emotional mindset his clues are surprisingly accurate sometimes - and sometimes surprisingly stupid."

"What? That's a contradiction in itself," she laughed.

"Not really… not with Sherlock… He kind of manages to stir through emotional things with his own logic; often failing, but that routine malfunctions not often enough so one could say it doesn't work at all. It works sometimes,  and sometimes it doesn't. It's that database thing. He just memorises what is right and what is wrong, doesn't make the decision with heart, but with what he has stored. Usually he's willing to add new data, but not from any source. I'm glad he seems to trust you as a reliable one."

"Seems he does. Hope he does with this, too."

"Tell me."

"Not now, it was a bit frustrating, our arguing was more a repetitive circle than heading somewhere. We had a similar conversation before. Long story short: I told him you both need each other's help and he needs to accept yours."

"All right… So, I need to understand and register every little sign of him showing he actually does."

"Yes... Let's get some cake, I need comfort food for dinner."

"Oh god, his eating habits are rubbing off on you. He did that in the past sometimes, eating cake for dinner. But maybe that was because the case was finished and it was the first food available."

Mary giggled, "Or maybe we should get some ice cream. Does he eat that?"

"I don't know… Never seen it."

"That's odd."

"No, it isn't. That's Sherlock."

"You lived with him for two years and have never bought ice cream?"

"No."

"I think that's odd, too. Why didn't you? I think we need to do an experiment."

"Don't bombard him with too many things normal people do. He'll shut you out if you overdo it. The way he's behaving in the last days… I wonder why he hasn't yet thrown out us or sought refuge somewhere else. He sometimes did that in the past… vanished for a few days, I mean. I don't want that happening, so let's be a bit more careful not to push him too hard."

"Seriously, John… I think he needs a few pushes… Careful tender ones, the sort that he _understands_ are caring."

"He doesn't like being cared for… and he'll flee if it gets too much."

"I know. But the conversation we had earlier also revealed a few things he needs he can't ask for."

John stopped dead in his tracks, "And what might that be?"

"Trust me with this."

"He told you?"

"No, not really, but I saw. But it's too diffuse to put it into words, it's more like going with my guts. What flavour do you think he'd like?"

John rolled his eyes.

.

Sherlock was on the sofa, thinking, when they came back, not lying down but sitting hunched over, his elbows resting on his knees, his fingertips pressed together and his fingers spread wide.  He had changed into a dress shirt and some of his better trousers.

It was a bit unnerving, that he remained silent and didn't speak, didn't react and neither ate nor participated in anything they offered.

He seemed absent.

They stored away the supplies and busied themselves with cleaning the kitchen and preparing dinner.

About an hour after their return Sherlock finally laid down, at which point he seemed a bit more relaxed.

But when John left his hearing distance he sat up again, even closed his eyes.

It seemed he wanted to be able to hear John's presence.

Mary internally raised her eyebrows about that.

Did Sherlock actually classify this as another danger night and therefore tried to compensate like this on his own?

As soon as John returned to the flat – he had been upstairs to get his appointment book – Sherlock laid back again.

After dinner, when John announced he'd go to bed and vanished into the bathroom, the doorbell's ring surprised them.

Mary almost let her laptop slip when Sherlock jumped up from the couch and yelled, "Use the key!" down the stairway in a loudness that might have woken half of Baker Street.

He had his phone out and was typing a text when someone unlocked the front door and a few moments later started to climb up the stairs.

"What's happening?" John came out of the bathroom, clad in his pyjama bottoms but still in his shirt and jumper.

"Another woman is missing," Sherlock said and a moment later Lestrade entered the living room, with raised eyebrows.

"Correct," he agreed

"Shit," John commented.

"I'm on my way to her flat share, want to come?" Greg asked no one in particular.

Sherlock didn't respond, just headed into his room, passing John on the way, who was still standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

"Can you please put on some trousers," Sherlock mumbled while striding past him.

Now John raised his eyebrows.

That was an invitation to come with him?

He looked after Sherlock, then back at Lestrade, who rolled his eyes.

"Talking's not worth the effort today?" the DI suggested, low enough to be overheard by Sherlock.

"Not really," John realised aloud, "Back in a minute, Greg."

He hurried up the stairs while Mary and the DI exchanged greetings. Five minutes later they were all in Lestrade's car.

 

Sherlock minutely inspected the recent victim's flat, but there was nothing out of order.

The roommate - her name was Miranda - had been home all day and the missing girl had just not come home.

There were also no odd events in the past days or new contacts.

The best friend and flatmate explained to them she had had a funny encounter with a stranger herself a week ago, but they all agreed it didn't fit into the behaviour of the perpetrator so far. Also, she told them a gentleman had approached her at a bar where she had been with friends with a rose and asked her to have dinner with him. She feared a prank and her friends laughed at the odd event so she refused and the man had vanished. The description also didn't fit to their suspect, except height and young looking, but when shown the sketches she was absolutely sure the gentleman hadn't looked anything similar to them. So they let it go.

Sherlock was his usual rude self and some of his questions embarrassed her, which he either didn't care about or just stored away, as usual.

When he finally asked, "Are you two a couple?" she blushed.

"Sherlock…"

"What? This might be important."

"No. She's just my best friend."

"But you are… nnnot heterosexual," Sherlock continued hesitatingly - and a bit more tactfully.

"Not exactly, no," she answered honestly.

"What if he planned to take her and then found that out and took the other girl instead?" Sherlock thought aloud.

John saw tears pooling in Miranda's eyes, "Timing, Sherlock!"

"Sorry," Sherlock said absentmindedly, clearly not sorry at all.

The girl put up a brave front and gulped her fears down, then answered all their questions and showed them the computers and other equipment.

She had clearly heard of the consulting detective and his blogger, but tried not to let it and her curiosity show.

Even before John had the feeling they had gathered enough information Sherlock headed for the front door and declared he was finished. Lestrade, John and a young police man followed, _after_ they had thanked the young woman.

"Greg, how about you come to Baker Street for a beer later and we discuss this?" John suggested.

"I'm free now, the young fella will bring the collected evidence back to Scotland Yard and Sally will do some more background checks and footwork. I just need a few minutes on the phone, then we can go. If Sherlock thinks this is boring and probably not related to our case I doubt he'll bother investigating. Let me send the officer off with the evidence, before we  go…"

Sherlock was sitting in Lestrade's car, typing on his phone when they reached it. It had started to rain and they hurried to get inside.

"The weather might get nasty," Lestrade wrinkled his nose.

"Mycroft will meet us at 221b," Sherlock simply stated.

"Are you inviting me for a beer, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked in a slightly teasing tone, knowing about the bottles Sherlock had bought earlier, that were still untouched in the fridge.

"Yes," Sherlock answered without looking up.

"You might want to actually say it out loud, then," John suggested.

"What for, he knows what I mean."

John puckered his lips, staring at the car's ceiling for a moment to gather his patience.

Greg started the engine.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing is quite hard for me at the moment, therefore the delay, but some things are just a bit too close to home… Sorry for the delay, but life sucks a lot right now and I just couldn't manage to concentrate on writing or any positive thoughts at all.   
> Thanks to anyone who's still out there reading this. You are great! Thank you for staying with me.


	68. Tuesday night - late

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

 

Later, at home, they gathered around the coffee table, with beer and tea. Everybody except Sherlock was seated, Lestrade and Mary on the sofa and John on a kitchen chair opposite of them, his laptop on his knees and his beer next to him on the dinner table, among the chaos of files and evidence pictures and notes. The consulting detective however had changed and was running up and down the room in his blue damaged old dressing gown.* He was broadcasting tension and John was quite irritated about the sudden mood change.

"This is related," he murmured while the others were still deep into small talk. Sherlock had refused tea and beer and anything else.

"What?" Lestrade asked.

"This is related, but how!"

"Did I get something wrong? Back at the flat I thought you were convinced this wasn't."

"What made you think that?"

"I don't know, your disinterest, the lack of similarities."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but kept his mouth shut, the message was quite clear.

"Could you think out loud, so that us stupid bystanders have the chance to understand what's happening?" Mary teased, smiling up at him.

When he ignored her and continued to run up and down the room she stood up and vanished into the kitchen.

"I'll not explain this twice," he murmured finally, but Mary was out of hearing range by then.

"Twice?" John echoed.

That moment steps could be heard on the stairs and John was immediately alarmed.

Mrs Hudson had gone to bed hours ago, but the fact that Sherlock stayed absolutely calm made it clear that it must be Mycroft.

Moments later there was a soft knock on the living room door and the older Holmes entered without waiting for an answer.

"The colonel is still keeping his silence?" Sherlock greeted him.

"Yes."

Mycroft nodded towards Lestrade and John, "Evening."

"Night would be more appropriate," Lestrade yawned.

"We restored some of the data Alexander deleted, among the files were several records of attendance that proved Ian Alexander had participated in… something. This is evidence that the man has or had two sons… and that one of them had signed in for military duty," Mycroft informed without further introductions.

"What happened to him?" John wanted to know.

"We don't really know, except that he was thrown out. It was tiny reports or lists he tried to delete. Sheer luck we were able restore some, he was thorough. Deleted entry logs, renamed documents and changed data-types, finally moved them to wrong directories, which makes his actions had to follow," Mycroft sat down on the place Mary had vacated a few moments earlier.

"Thrown out?" Greg repeated.

"Dishonourably discharged, we don't know why yet."

Sherlock continued to move back and forth through the room, not bothering to be quiet.

"Alexander is still refusing to talk. He's polite, but not saying anything more than empty phrases," Mycroft continued.

"Politician," Sherlock hissed.

"With some knowledge about law," Lestrade assumed.

"I want to interrogate him myself," Sherlock stated.

"No," the DI refused, which made Sherlock's pacing even more frantic.

"Oh, for god's sake, why not?!" he burst out, making another snappy turn in between the two armchairs, then headed towards the sofa again.

"So, we let him go free and observe him. See what he does, he'll lead us there," Sherlock then added in a slow voice.

"You really think he's that stupid?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes, if I _am_ correct his son is the murderer and he's the one trying to hide his crimes. He'll be in a delicate situation when another woman goes missing. We need to make sure he gets the news… maybe let him go free _because_ it's clear he's not the villain since he was in custody when another woman disappeared… that is… if your sergeants didn't reveal to him that this was our suspicion in the first place."

"It was?" Mary asked, returning to the group.

"Yes, of course."

"Hey, I don't know half the facts, sum it up for me," she smiled at him and shoved a cup of tea into Sherlock's hands.

The detective moved to his armchair and sat down, balancing the fine china cup and the saucer expertly while he lifted his feet onto the seat. Then he started summarising the case for her, which also was a good thing for everybody else, since the numerable victims and evidence varied greatly and Sherlock seemed to be the only one who hadn't lost track of the large amount of it.

Sherlock's mind was as structured and clear as ever with the facts, just deducing things seemed to be slower than normal. At least he appeared less unconcentrated and less distracted as he had seemed for days now.

The detective's monologue lasted almost half an hour and was only interrupted by brief remarks from John and Lestrade. Mycroft listened carefully, staring at the floor.

It surprised John, that he took his time to listen to this in the middle of the night, but then he realised the older Holmes was waiting for something... or maybe just assessing his brother's state of mind.

Sherlock was just explaining that in every case the internet or a device with which one could access it played a role, but that up to date no one was able to find the suspect's online trail, which was quite odd, or he was just very clever hiding his existence.

Then Mycroft's phone rang and interrupted them.

Everybody listened when he answered it, then he asked for further details about something. When the older Holmes finally hung up he explained what he had just learned.

"Our suspect dropped out of military early during basic training, when he reapplied, he was refused, not suitable."

"What does that mean?" Mary asked.

"We don't know yet, but there are hints he behaved inappropriately on several occasions.

At some point later he worked as a janitor or technician, changed jobs fast, never stayed long."

"Probably until everyone was freaked out with his behaviour?" John guessed.

"Probably," Mycroft affirmed, "the records are surprisingly fragmentary, our computer specialist had quite a lot of _fun_ I was told."

"Continue," Sherlock urged.

"No one knows where he is, where he lives, what he does. He vanished. The last record we were able to find is from an A&E visit after a fight, that was five years ago. He managed to drop off the face of the earth. Our specialists would love to 'interview' him."

Sherlock smiled artificially.

"So, Sherlock is right, keeping a close eye on the colonel is the only way to get to his son," John said.

"How did he find out his son was doing this?" Lestrade asked.

"That's a good question. He removed most of the traces that proved he had a second son from his home; Ian hasn't lived there in years, most likely moved out as a teenager, or at the latest when the military refused him… He obviously has no direct contact to his son."

"How is that obvious?"

Sherlock just rolled his eyes.

"So, how _does_ he know?"

"Maybe he doesn't. Or maybe he's stalking him, too."

"Observing someone who is observing someone else might be quite a challenge," Lestrade's fingers moved over his lower lips in concentration.

"Yes, and it should neither include Sherlock nor the doctor, since our suspect already knows what they look like."

"Don't be ridiculous, we can manage to use a disguise," Sherlock huffed. "Besides, we need to monitor the flat, too."

"You think he'll use it the same way, even if the flatmate lives there?"

"No, I think he's escalating."

"Really?" Greg and John said almost simultaneously in surprise.

"However, he'll do this one different than the ones before; either he plans to include the flatmate - because he needs more of… something - or he doesn't plan to return to her flat. No matter how, either choosing _her_ or the double event were the main ambition."

"So we take the flatmate into protective custody?" Lestrade fetched out his notepad and started to write things down.

"No, that would broadcast we're on his heels much too loudly," Sherlock stared down at the mug, holding it with both hands now, "But she should have a hidden transmitter or mini panic button or something, I'm sure Mycroft can get something suitable for her."

Mycroft forced a smile, "Of course. Key chain?"

"Logical choice, since if he's after her, he is also after their location and therefore would keep the keys," Sherlock explained, "The keys…" his head jerked upwards and he squinched his eyes shut, sucking in air in surprise.

"What about the keys?" Mary asked; but Sherlock didn't react, seemed frozen mid thought.

The detectives face was a grimace and Mary and Lestrade went immediately into a high alert state.

"Sherlock?" John asked softly and stood up slowly.

"What's happening?" Lestrade asked, "Is he having a flashback or something?"

"No… I think he has just found something and is cross checking every tiny bit of information about the keys on this case."

"So he's not in distress?" Mary asked, not sure to believe it, because Sherlock clearly looked like it.

"He probably is somewhere in the mind palace where he stored the information about the case," Mycroft explained, "This might take a while. I might as well return to my bed."

John gave a huffing laugh, he had never heard Mycroft say something this personal ever before, he was even surprised the man owned a bed. An irritated look from both, Mary and Mycroft stopped him.

"Sorry. God, I'm just overjoyed he's doing this again," he sighed.

He stepped closer to make sure Sherlock was, in fact, okay.

The other man's face had relaxed a bit and he was neither breathing too fast nor sweating. Good thing that Mycroft was correct.

"Text me if he finds something interesting," Mycroft stood up and said his goodbyes, a minute later he was gone.

"Greg, another beer?"

"If I drink one more I'll have to kip on your couch and I'm not sure that's a good idea."

John smiled.

"Well, night's almost over anyway, might want to consider it."

"What time is it?"

"Where's your watch?"

"Got damaged two nights ago."

"Oh, arduous case?"

"No, stupid one. Hand to hand fight at a small fountain, well, a lot of people were soaked afterwards, and it was fucking freezing!"

This made all three of them laugh, Sherlock was oblivious to all of it.

"Three thirty," Mary finally informed him.

"Shit."

"Yeah."

"God, I'm really considering hijacking Sherlock's bed," Lestrade admitted. "You have to work tomorrow?" he addressed John.

"Afternoon shift," the doctor answered, then looked at his future wife. "She, too. You?"

"Eight," Lestrade grimaced.

John and Mary winced simultaneously in sympathy.

"Though I might come in a bit later for having been out all night, but if…"

He had no chance to finish the sentence because Sherlock suddenly spun around and clapped his hands, which made everyone jump in surprise.

"The keys!" he exclaimed loudly.

"What about them?" the doctor asked.

"Where did you get Sandra Herman's keys?"

"From the person that alerted us to her disappearance," Lestrade answered.

"Her key chain wasn't found, the suspect left with it… Where did you get the other victims keys?"

"Friends, family, relatives… But we found the victim's key chains, too."

"And did you actually test if the keys to the front doors of their living quarters _was_ on the key chain?"

"Shit. Probably not, the key chains were identified and that was probably it."

"We need to test it!"

"What for?"

"He keeps them as a trophy!"

"If you already know that, why test it?"

"Because it's only a theory."

"And what would happen if we knew they were?"

"Er… we'd know, of course," Sherlock was getting unnerved.

"Yeah, obviously, but what good would that do, mate?" Lestrade tried to soothe.

"I have no intention to explain all thirty-three theories to you that might fit… But maybe it is only important to be aware that he might fetch the latest victim's flatmate or enter her flat with the keys he has from the first girl. And that he might change locations… would be logical over all after the media attention the case got… where's Mycroft?"

"Went home."

"Arrange that the girl is under constant surveillance or even in protective custody - though the latter would do us no good in finding the killer."

"Are you suggesting we use her as a bait?" John sounded horrified.

"Yes."

"Not an option!" Lestrade said.

"Fine, then make someone take her somewhere safe, I'm quite sure he's changing his course of action, just not in what way."

Lestrade stood up, phone already at his ear, then stepped into the kitchen to talk to one of his colleagues.

Sherlock started ignoring the others again.

Finally, half an hour later, Lestrade called a cab and went home, since there was nothing more to do for the moment. The girl was relatively safe and he needed some sleep.

After a short discussion John managed to gently drag Sherlock towards his bed and convince him to lie down. Sherlock was quite tired and at a point suddenly stopped to fight him, allowed John to take his arm and gently nudge him back onto the mattress. Then he just rolled onto his side fully clothed and before John was sure what was happening his breathing had deepened.

The doctor raised his brows and stared at the other man for a few long moments. He left after he was sure Sherlock had drifted off.

 

\----------------------

_*_

_In case anyone doesn't remember how Sherlock damaged the blue dressing gown go back to chapters 33 and 34, where Sherlock has refused to play the violin for a long time and when he finally does it is a bit destructive to his wardrobes and the interior._

_Since there was this babysitting remark in TSoT and the fact that Sherlock had accepted Mary into 221b and was getting along with her very well I thought this needed some fundament, this is why I wrote Mary the way she is here._


	69. Wednesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary talks to John about something that is on her mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

 

They slept in the next morning, and in the early afternoon John and Mary went to work. Sherlock stayed under the watchful eyes of Mrs Hudson. Neither John nor Mary left easily, though John wondered if he was imagining it or if Mary really seemed almost more nervous about it than he was himself.

Shortly after the couple left Mrs Hudson prepared tea and headed upstairs, but Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. She gently shoved the door to his room open a bit and peered in. Sherlock was deeply asleep and the landlady decided to retreat and come back again later.

About two hours later she entered the upstairs flat for the second time; she found Sherlock typing and reviewing case notes. He looked so much like he used to and she sighed and stepped closer.

"How are you doing, dear?" she asked, putting the tray down on top of the mess that was the dining table and rested a gentle hand on his shoulder.

He didn't react.

"Tea?"

"Yes," he answered and she poured him a cup.

"It's so nice to have John and Mary here. Brings life back to the house... I really missed you, you know!"

She hugged him sideways, ignoring his typing.

He grunted, but neither pulled away nor stopped typing.

It made her giggle.

"Sherlock, it would be kind to _not_ ignore me. Drink some tea."

"I'm not ignoring you, I'm rather not actively participating in sentimental behaviour. My passiveness should be suffice to signal I do you the favour to endure it… for your sake."

"Oh, well, thank you Sherlock, that is really nice of you," her tone only carried a hint of sarcasm, but also the praising of a child that was working on something hard though making almost no progress.

She poured sugar into his cup and stirred, then closed the lit of the laptop, giving him only enough time to pull his fingers back in time.

He stared up at her, unnerved.

"Drink some tea," she suggested, smiling innocently at him.

"Fine!" he pouted and accepted the cup.

 

At the surgery Mary became more nervous about leaving Sherlock out of sight than John. Though they had taken the tablet with them, it stayed with her. John was too busy listening to the everyday miseries of his patients to keep an eye on the detective anyway.

Mrs Hudson could be seen managing to stay with Sherlock for quite some time, but finally Sherlock grew tired of her small talk and shoved her physically out of the door.

This was the point when Mary started to think about trying to get home.

Gosh, she realised she had started to really feel home at 221b.

But something needed to change, and soon. She'd never forgive herself if Sherlock _really_ started using again and she knew and failed to stop him.

Up to now she hadn't told John about the morphine, but she was aware she needed to set herself a deadline for this if Sherlock didn't.

She felt it was necessary to get home early, Sherlock couldn't be left alone for too long. The afternoon was quiet and she managed to convinced one of the other nurses that something urgent had come up and she was needed at home.

An hour later she was back at Baker Street, two hours before the official ending of her shift.

Sherlock was still reviewing case facts and ignored her arrival and the pastries she had brought, that was until almost an hour later, when she had settled down with her current book on the sofa under a blanket.

He suddenly started to ask her what she thought about this fact or that detail. At first she raised her eyebrows internally but then understood her opinion was actually valued.

The day before she had seen John and Sherlock interact when talking about the case, it had been exhilarating, John was different since Sherlock's return, not only for the worse, but in some aspects for the better. He was of course angry and devastated and shocked, but solving cases and interacting with the detective did her betrothed good overall.

John seemed less depressed when they were investigating, less wound up. She found it difficult to grasp, but realised something was starting to get back to balance. The way Sherlock counterbalanced John was amazing.

Last night she had first seen it clearly. Subtle changes, but she had never seen her future husband with so much energy. Only now she began to understand what John must have been like before Sherlock's death. It made her heart heavy guessing how much he must have been changed by that.

She had only known him with the shadow of loss hovering over him, which now was hopefully starting to dissolve. The things she loved about John seemed to blossom, something was starting to lift from his soul. Though it was overshadowed by Sherlock's current state it was visible last night, and before, during the nights she had been away, when John had called her and told her about the case.

He had definitely missed solving cases, more than he was ready to admit, she suddenly understood why John had punched Sherlock so hard the third time. She had assumed before because it was because it was an insult that Sherlock thought he hadn't missed it, but now understood it was much more than that.

John had once told her than Sherlock's suicide had almost killed him, when they had spoken about Sherlock for the first time. It was quite some time after they had started dating and John had been reluctant to talk about it at all in the beginning. Back then she had thought it was just a matter of phrasing, but now it dawned on her that this might have been more literal than she had thought. She was already worried about her spouse but this thought made her even more uneasy.

During the past days she understood more and more what John had lost. She was discovering glimpses of a new side of John and she really liked it!

In the past a part of her had wondered if she'd have hated the egoistic detective when John spoke about him and how he had behaved.

But now, that she had seen how Sherlock really was... Quite different from what one might guess from reports, divergent from what she had expected.

Sherlock _was_ often unaware of his rude behaviour, his ability to focus on a problem and really leave everything else behind seemed rude, though it wasn't. On one hand his cluelessness woke a protective instinct in her, though on the other she had never met somebody who seemed so very independent and capable of surviving.

John had underlined quite often that most people developed the feeling of dislike, especially when they knew Sherlock only superficially.

Now she watched Sherlock's stoic stiff posture, who continued to ask something now and then, without looking up at her, deep in thoughts. He was so different from what she had expected. Also he reacted differently to her than expected.

She had been granted access, though the longer this lasted the more determined she became that she needed to talk to John about her stay. She was alleviated she was accepted here, but something was not right.

She was not rejected but taken in, and it still surprised her a bit.

Maybe not including her was not even an option for Sherlock.

He had asked if she was an extension of John or something like that, hadn't he?

She had never dreamed of thinking about a relationship this way.

It felt strange, kind of 'adopted'. She didn't know if she even earned allowance or if Sherlock was just letting her in because of John. Of course John had told her how Sherlock had behaved with his former girlfriends and the disasters that had followed.

While pretending to read her book and answering questions about romances and human behaviour and female thinking she tried to figure out how to continue this.

 

"John, stop waiting for him to reject me. He won't," she started the topic when they were preparing for the night.

God, Sherlock war really rubbing off on her, dropping bombs like this wasn't usually her thing. Sure, she was quite direct and all, but not like this.

"What makes you so certain?… and what if you decide _you_ don't like him?" John was into it immediately, which showed her he had giving this topic quite a lot of thoughts.

Sherlock was on stakeout with Lestrade, who had informed John that this was a good opportunity for the couple to have some alone-time and catch up with much needed sleep. John had briefly told the DI about the flashback and dissociative episode Sherlock had had earlier and what to do in case something like that happened again.

"John… somebody _you_ love like a brother out of free will can not be that bad…"

"It's not… It's more the ignorance that drives people away, the egoistic things, that he only does what he thinks is needed and isn't aware of other people's needs, most people can't deal with that. Although it is not meant to be selfish or mean, he seems to be just blind about it sometimes and it pisses people off."

"Yeah, I know. Well, I'll try to develop a blindness for his blind spots then," she smiled and embraced him.

"Be warned, I tried that, too, but it got me pissed of nevertheless sometimes."

"I know, that's totally normal. Probably as much as he is pissed off about human nature sometimes."

"Right…"

"Besides I think he has learned a lot. What I have seen of his demeanour up to now... I think that he is honestly trying to fix that, particularly when it comes to you. He is listening to your needs."

"Bit late, but yes, he is."

"John, don't get me wrong, what I'm saying now might sound harsh, but… Maybe it was not a good idea to add me to the mix… at least not this soon. Maybe it was too early."

"No."

"You don't want that to be not true, but maybe you both need a bit more time to… adjust – just the two of you I mean."

"No!" he let go of her.

"It's very nice of you to contradict me, but I think we should reduce my staying over here to the weekends."

"No."

"John, if you really want to help make him better you should concentrate on only that, not on me and how I'm coping with his behaviour and him with mine. It adds stress to something that is already overstressed."

"I don't want you to feel shut out."

"I won't. He needs you more than I do at the moment."

"And I want him to understand that you are important to me."

"He already got that. He has accepted me. He just has not the energy to… learn… me… Sorry, I don't know how to put it… Me being here takes energy to adjust and learn new ways and so on, which he doesn't have. He needs _familiar_ and _safe_ at the moment - more than anything - which has nothing to do with not wanting me here. It's just too much. I'll stay at home for four or five nights a week. It will be okay."

"I…" John stammered, looking lost.

"It's not that he doesn't want me here, he's just overwhelmed by all the changes and I'm a _significant_ change. I think he wants to accept me, maybe even only for your sake - we'll find out if he really wants it for _my_ sake - but he's unable to cope with too much change right now. And changing his living situation, his safe place, is definitely a major thing. I think we should give him a break, make sure his safe haven is exactly that, safe. Which means you and him and integrating old times as much as possible."

She could see he was partially horrified but shared some aspects of her opinion.

"He is quite possessive, I can't let him think that…"

"He has understood that I think. I even think he is holding back because he thinks after what he did he has no right to take your offered… services."

"Well, this might send the wrong signal."

"No, he knows he has to share you. I don't really see too much possessiveness at the moment. I will inform you both if I do."

John sighed.

"Hey, I love you. I just try to do the right thing for all of us."

"I… I know," John sighed. "I love you." He seemed to be quite moved about this.

He kissed her.

 

Thursday passed in a similar way. Sherlock spent the night on stakeout and John and Mary had time to catch up with their sleep.

During the day Sherlock slept and Mrs Hudson was determined to behave in a manner that would not lead to Sherlock throw her out. So she kept conversations light and busied herself with cleaning the flat as silent as possible.

Mary had bought a large bag of fresh ginger and told her if she was bored she could try to make Sherlock peel it. So Mrs Hudson tried to coax him into helping her with the domestic stuff, arguing that he needed to learn it to cope with it better because John was no longer living here doing everything for him and she was a landlady, not the maid.

Sherlock was not amused about being reminded this direct about the fact.

When she removed his experiment equipment from the table he was sitting on, he finally exploded and threw several petri dishes into the kitchen wall. The shards rained down behind the stove and the front of a counter.

"Sherlock Holmes! Get a grip and help me peel this!" she yelled at him.

He froze, he had never heard her yell - Well, not like this!

She had scolded him or uttered her disapproval, but this sounded like… an angry mother.

Then she shoved a kitchen knife and two plates onto the table in front of him, taking away the microscope. She knew exactly where to hold the heavy object and how to balance it, proof of how often she had moved it in the past. After she had wiped the table in front of Sherlock she placed an old sheet of newspaper in front of him.

"I need this peeled."

"Who put you up to this? Is my brother trying to mortify me?"

"No one, I want to bake ginger bread. It's not long until Christmas, you know," she seemed not happy about the fact that he had accused her of being manipulated by Mycroft.

Her tone was even more strained when she added, "And you need to think of something else than the case for a moment anyway."

"This is ridiculous, I don't need a babysitter and I don't need domestic bliss and I don't want to be mollycoddled and pitied!" he yelled and with an angry movement he shoved two Erlenmeyer flasks off the table, they landed on the floor, in the hallway to the bathroom. One shattered to pieces, but the other one just bounced - high quality lab equipment.

When he tried to stand up she grasped his shoulders, tightly.

"Young man! This is neither pity nor mollycoddling. This is freeing your mind of ballast by doing simple, stupid, mechanical tasks. Helped me whenever I was quite depressed… being productive in one way or another. So start peeling."

She put the knife and a large ginger root in front of him with a loud bang, Sherlock flinched.

When she turned around and filled the kettle the broken glass on the ground made ugly noises under her shoes. She then placed a large mug of tea next to the other items in front of him.

She ignored the shards, which finally made him switch back out of his anger, he was more busy with wondering what had gone wrong now.

She did _not_ do such things. She'd clean away the mess, not step into it.

He narrowed his eyes, observing her back. The linoleum was unlikely to get severely damaged by small shards of glass, but the grinding noise was unnerving.

He started peeling, his mind busy with what was happening here right now.

What had he done wrong?

He had thrown things before, she had not reacted like this.

When she turned around again, another knife and a bowl of potatoes in her hand he had just finished the first small element he had broken off the root.

"You can do much better, you're wasting too much of it," she went on, not looking at him. "Don't think that I will let you get away with playing clumsy or wasting it," she warned.

She was really angry.

Sherlock spend the rest of John-away-time with recollecting every word they had spoken during the past week, in the attempt to find out what was getting to her so much.

 

 


	70. Friday morning - Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Without anyone wanting so, breakfast turns into a desaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.
> 
> As I have done before, in this chapter there is a lot of jumping between Sherlock's and John's perspective. The dot marks the change of perspective though the conversation continues without interruption, hope this okay.

 

 

John was sitting in the living room having breakfast when Sherlock joined him with a cup of tea in his hand.

While hunting down Moriarty's men Sherlock had realised it he longed for those tiny everyday things every time he had his morning tea alone in a hotel or a dark hiding place. He had missed John for every single cup of tea. In the end it had caused him to evade drinking tea, probably a subconscious fear of being confronted with that loneliness again.

But even though he should be enjoying the return of those things now that they were back, the muddy taste of 'probably a sporadic event in the future' was tinting the experience in blue grey chagrin.

Things would never be the same.

Something was gone.

"You're still in the newspapers about the terrorist attack. Mostly positive feedback… Though this article mentions the words 'fraud' and 'liar' a bit too often for my liking," John murmured, turning the pages of one of the daily papers in front of him.

"What are they suspecting now? That I'm a terrorist and uncover terrorist networks to distract from my _own_ terrorist-plans? Well, that would at least be something new. I would make a good fake-terrorist," he knew his voice carried a mixture of sarcasm and bitter amusement.

He sipped at his tea and continued, "They are just dumb newspapers… One thing I actually agree with Moriarty, named them Fairy tales. There have been and there always will be people calling me a liar. Is that still bothering you?"

"Yeah, of course."

"I still don't understand," Sherlock admitted.

John looked up at him without lifting his head, a hint of anger in his face.

"You want to tell me that if they'd call _me -_ let's say… er… a thief - and try to throw me in jail for that, making false accusations, _you_ wouldn't be offended?"

Sherlock tried to imagine John being arrested for something he hadn't done.

It indeed felt… different from… - yes, what exactly?

It felt… like an _urge_ , that... need to make things right.

"Er… well, yes, I guess, that would make me… uneasy… or something," the detective stammered, not comfortable with uttering vague sensations. 

John looked as if he had not thought it possible that Sherlock might actually understand the example.

In contrast to back then - when they had had this discussion for the first time shortly before _the Fall -_ he had not understood it at all. He had suggested John was afraid that the accusations might rub off on him. Normal people often did that, assuming a bad reputation would jump over to themselves from somebody they were in contact with, it was a well known phenomenon. That day John had been angry about the accusation but Sherlock failed to find out why exactly… But at this moment, he just understood - partially at least. After those two years of hell the example was easy to understand.

Great! Brain ping time: 741 days.

But there was another factor…

"So why don't you understand that it makes _me_ uneasy if they call _you_ a fraud?" John interrupted his thoughts.

"Isn't that obvious? Because it's _me_ being accused. None cares about the freak. Waste of time. Why would anyone mind?" he grinned at John, trying to say it as a punchline that should end the topic.

.

John frowned while he wondered where Sherlock was getting that opinion coming from?

He gulped.

Was Sherlock trying to provoke something or was this really his attitude about himself?

The utterance would fit to his recent depressive behaviour.

"Please, just don't call yourself a fraud as a joke," John begged.

"Oh, you are telling me you can't stand me make any remarks about that topic? I was just… joking," Sherlock suggested.

"Bad one, really."

"I didn't mean anything by that, it was just a remark."

"Sherlock, you never waste a breath to say things you don't mean," John was getting frustrated.

The detective rarely even tried to make jokes and was far from good at it at all. Most of the times he did it to cover things up, to change topics, to divert attention.

"In fact I do that a lot. All those useless social interactions you taught me, to be polite with strangers who mean nothing to me? What about those? Those are useless things I waste my breath for."

"I taught you something? God, Sherlock you are telling me I changed you? I don't believe you."

"Obviously."

"Er, don't change the subject."

"Why am I not to joke about it?… I'm still trying to practise that ability."

"Not with _this_ topic!" John's voice had hardened, was even carrying anger now.

"Why not?"

"Well, it actually hurts me," John burst out.

Sherlock was silent for a long moment, maybe he was as perplexed about the statement as John was himself.

"You mean it hurts physically or emotionally or like in psychosomatic?"

Was this Sherlock being mean or just emotionally dumb once more?

"For god's sake, how can you be so insensible?" John yelled, getting  out of his chair. "It hurts me because it reminds me of that bloody phone call, when you made me listen to your dammed suicide note!… The note hurt me. What you said hurt me. What you meant hurt me… and that you wanted me to tell everybody that you're a fraud hurt me… and that you left me in the dark for two years hurt me!"

John was suddenly out of breath, he hadn't spilled his guts about such things in a long time, neither this direct, nor this emotional.

"I did that to keep you safe," Sherlock responded in a stoic and calm voice.

"Oh, really!" John felt his anger rise even more, "Sometimes I wondered if - had I been given a choice - I'd have chosen to be 'unsafe'…"

The detective looked honestly shocked up at him.

"Are you telling me you'd have preferred to be shot?"

John realised he had not wanted to imply this but his frustration was exploding right now.

"Maybe your intention was to spare me pain and death, Sherlock, but in fact the pain that 'keeping me safe' caused might have been worse than the alternative."

With a slightly insecure back and forth Sherlock's gaze went over the walls, he actually looked ashamed, and as if understanding the full force of John's remark.

"I needed you to be safe," he tried to explain his intentions, again.

"I know. But I still don't get why the hell you thought making me listen to your 'note' kept me save?… Or seeing your mangled body on that pavement, covered in blood?… Can you even try to imagine what that did to me? This was _not_ keeping me safe. This was the worst  ..." John chocked on his own words and closed his mouth mid sentence. He had a hard time trying to get himself under control.

He stood up and walked over to the fireplace, needing a bit space between them.

Mary had told him to be open and listen carefully, but right now he was doing the opposite.

"It was all fake, you know that," Sherlock said in an impatient tone, "For heaven's sake! Why do I have to explain this again? Just overwrite the old memories with the new ones… I can tell you how I did it in detail if that would help."

"NO! I can _not_ just overwrite stuff! Just to _think_ of that moment where you lay there, your eyes staring blind into space, makes me nauseous… For the rest of my life I _will_ remember the horror of that moment… and the pain it caused," John realised his voice was really loud now, his friend's words pissing him off immensely.

"Those memories will be there for the rest of my fucking life!… And to be honest, they're still popping up at least four times a day… This will _never_ stop to hurt, Sherlock. For you, it was just a show of your brilliancy to fake things… but did you even spend a _minute_ to consider what this would do to me?… It re-awoke the PTSD, the limping came back, I was sick for weeks, I had nightmares for months, I still have trouble sleeping… this _still_ hurts!"

"I took a lot of discipline to go through with that act. It was not easy for me, too," Sherlock explained, his voice sounding dead and monotone.

"You were not the one having to deal with my loss… And I doubt you'd have grieved  for me," John was so angry he overstepped the boundary.

He said ugly things with the intention to hurt. He knew he did, he had not done this often before in his life, but right now he did, he was just _so_ very pissed that he didn't care.

"You think saying goodbye to you was easy? I did it to keep you safe… and to evade to lose you," Sherlock self-exculpated.

"And the price for that was making _me_ loose you, great treat…"

"Clearly, I saw no other way."

"You could have _told_ me. As simple as that."

"The risk was too high, I also said that before," Sherlock's tone was getting dangerous now.

"So, you risked me blowing my head off in grief?" John yelled before he could stop himself.

.

Sherlock felt himself pale but to his relief John didn't see it. The other man's anger was making is difficult to breathe, it made the air in the room thicken. He stood up, the chair made him feel constricted.

Instead of admitting that he knew all those things, or expressing that it was difficult for him to know he was the cause of John's misery he just said nonsense.

Deep down he knew he had made a huge mistake. He had already said he was sorry.

What else was required?

He knew the aim _he_ had had during his time away - to return to his former life. He now realised an equivalent goal had been missing in John's life after the funeral. John had been sure that there was no chance to return to anything, in his understanding Sherlock had been gone forever. Sherlock at least calculated a chance to get through the mission alive, at least in the beginning, but the longer it took, the smaller the number became.

Since his nightmares last week, when he dreamt about John taking his own life, he had a vague idea of how that must have felt.

"I didn't plan to stay dead that long. I had hoped I'd be back after three or four months," Sherlock tried to explain.

"And when you realised it would take longer, you couldn't have let me know then?… Why didn't you Sherlock?… _Why_?"

"I didn't mean to… hurt you with this," Sherlock tried to express his remorse once more.

"No, you _didn't_ because you were careless, which hurts even more, Sherlock. You never care about anything else than yourself and your _fun_."

Was that really what John thought about him? Was he like that?

"The way you sprang at me in that bloody restaurant showed very clearly that you thought I'd welcome you with open arms no matter what, as if I had sat here the whole two years just waiting for you to come back… But – newsflash - I thought you were dead!"

John continued to yell, but then managed to get his tone down a bit.

"It would've been necessary to know you were actually alive to welcome you back… Tiny little thing you forgot… I thought you were DEAD!… Rotting in that bloody grave… lost forever…" Finally, John's voice broke with the last words.

Sherlock stood there, staring out of the window, trying to keep something that made him feel like-he-needed-to-rip-it-out at bay, it made his throat hurt.

It was all so wrong.

He had indeed thought that John would react different to his return. Mycroft had warned him that his own attitude was wrong, but he hadn't thought it was possible that his brother was right.

 _He_ was wrong. _He_ had screwed it… and he had just added to that mess again, with a dumb remark he had thought might be funny.

Blundered again.

Hurt John again, caused distress.

He bit his lips, wondering why his chest felt so tight.

Everything was wrong.

Interaction was a nasty maze, more than it had ever been before. As a child he had felt like this on a daily basis and he had hated it. Now this feeling was back and his intestines trembled with disgust. When he was little he had stopped speaking as a consequence, knowing that whatever he'd say would be wrong anyway, so speaking was a lost cause.

He turned around and looked at John, the doctor didn't look good. Pale and exhausted... and hesitating.

Maybe another apology was needed?

Would he start to yell again if Sherlock spoke?

This kind of angry shouting was something Sherlock had never liked, but at the moment it was really making him dizzy with the need to flee.

He looked down, stepped back to the table and busied his fingers by adding more unnecessary sugar to his tea, not sure if he should even try to speak.

.

John was already sorry for his outburst, he knew how hard it had hit Sherlock seeing the tape of John on his bed with the gun, he shouldn't have brought that into the conversation… but he was so very pissed about what Sherlock was saying.

He tried to calm down, it was not right to have mentioned it, and especially not in such an accusing way.

When he managed to turn and look at Sherlock, the other man was standing next to the table, not meeting his eyes. He seemed to be close to burst with anger himself… or something else?

Why was _he_ holding back?

"Usually you don't hold back about what is getting on your nerves, so go on, tell me why you are angry at me," John grouched, trying to encourage him.

Maybe shouting at each other would be a bit healing… He wanted to hear it and he wanted Sherlock to get it out of his system by saying it.

Then he suddenly became aware that he was provoking a reaction. Inwardly, he rolled his eyes about his own behaviour, remembering a conversation he had the day before with Mrs Hudson when he had come home.

_"Oh god, John, I think I did something bad," she had greeted him, "I did a… social experiment myself. I yelled at him. But instead of him coming to life and yell back he just… faltered. I… I'm so sorry. I thought it would work, always did with my sister's children."_

_"He's not a child, Mrs Hudson," John answered._

_"I know dear, I know, but every now and then things like that do work."_

_"I've noticed."_

_"He peeled the ginger and my potatoes and although I tried to make him talk to me… he just sat there, looking like… like I had just really done something unforgivable. I didn't even know he... He has never done that before."_

_John saw tears in her eyes._

_"He's so battered, John…."_

_"I know."_

_"And he's just so rude… and he woke my caring instincts like that, but he shoves me away whenever I fail to hide them."_

_John grinned, but when she looked at him he hastily removed the smile from his face._

_Had she ever been able to hide them at all?_

_He hadn't known she was even trying. Quite unsuccessful._

_"He'll forgive you. You know how he is sometimes, sulking or exploding. Tell me what happened," he demanded in an understanding voice._

That had only been yesterday and he had been sure Mrs Hudson would be forgiven, but this, he was sceptical if his outburst would be forgiven.

Shit, Sherlock was pissing people off a lot lately.

Was Mary right and he was doing this to test how willing they were to put up with him?

Or was he doing the opposite of what he needed to punish himself, driving people away he actually wanted around?

Now that he had released his frustration, in his opinion Sherlock had the same right to vent.

John knew Sherlock was burying some things deep inside, but didn't expect he would talk about them. This was the hardcore way, provoking a reaction, maybe the only option.

He had not planed to do this, it had just happened, as is had with their landlady. But they were here already, so stopping his own anger to make something good out of this fight would be actually not a bad idea.

But it wasn't working, Sherlock didn't scream back or went into the offensive. It gave John time to collect himself and cool down his anger.

When he had almost given up the hope that Sherlock would speak at all, he finally did, his voice was only a defeated whisper.

"I died for you… I left my life behind to safe you… I destroyed my reputation to make sure you'd survive. I left you behind, yes. It… it was the biggest sacrifice I ever made, there is nothing more I can give… But it was obviously not enough… and not the right thing. I am a fool, doing everything wrong. I am sorry."

Sherlock was looking away.

"Jesus, Sherlock…" this was the least John had expected and it made him want to punch himself for his aggressive behaviour before. In desperation, he rubbed his left hand over his eyes, trying to figure out what to say.

"Moriarty was right. He burned something out of me… I just didn't know it until last week. He won. He destroyed everything that was worth living for. He took what I need the most and he turned it against me. He's a genius."

"Hang on,… don't…" John started, well aware that the other man wasn't saying this because he wanted to hurt or insult him. Sherlock meant those things, it was what he experienced and felt, it was a tiny little glimpse into his thoughts.

Everybody had moved on, but Sherlock was not a part in any of it. He must feel left behind and useless.

"This was what he wanted, he won," Sherlock finished.

Silence.

The detective stood there, his face a dead mask and John realised he himself felt coming close to another meltdown.

Sherlock's defeat was heartbreaking.

John had not deemed it possible the man could be so disconnected and silent as he had been in the past days… so _muted._

He even appeared lifeless.

Broken.

This was so much not like Sherlock that it freaked him out; and those words and their meaning freaked him out, too.

"Alright. What do you think were the last two weeks about? Did you get the impression you were not worth my… help?" John's voice broke once more with the last words and he needed a few moments to regain control.

Sherlock did not move, he seemed to be completely oblivious to John's distress as well as his own.

"Did my anger hurt you so much that you really think you are this worthless?"

His former flatmate still didn't move an inch, nor did he say anything, he didn't even blink. The resignation that was in his eyes scared John.

"The past two weeks were about showing you how grateful I am that you are back, to help you regain control over this whole thing. To be a friend. To show you I missed you so much…"

He had to pause again for several seconds and take a few deep breaths.

"I need you in my life and there is one thing you could do right, right now. Stay with me. Do _not_ leave again without me… I'm not really angry any longer… I just still hurt, the same feeling you have experienced during the past weeks… I hurt because I missed you so much and it was so horrible to go through the last two years… Maybe this was what Moriarty aimed for, but it will only _be_ what he wanted if you give up now, do you realise that?"

The doctor did a step towards his friend, then continued.

"This is what he probably meant when he threatened to burn your heart out of you, yes… He meant hurting your soul so much you'd break from it. It's a decision you have to make now... If you want to let him be right or not…"

When there was no response John continued.

"Let's not make him succeed. Let's fight this. We need to get through this, restore what we had. I know it will never be like it was before but it will go on… It will be different, but not... less. I know you have serious issues with things changing, but… the important things won't change..." John paused briefly, making another small step towards his friend.

"Right now, you need to heal… Follow my lead with this if you don't trust yourself. I know this is a selfish remark, but I can't lose you again… I can't…"

John felt the wetness on his face and was glad Sherlock was looking the other way. Instead of provoking Sherlock to spill his guts he was the one doing it, it seemed.

He hadn't hoped Sherlock would speak, but then his cold low voice echoed through the room.

"I don't deserve your friendship, John. I put you through hell. I ruined everything… And I even failed to prevent that you saw the Fall itself. I'm a failure… You'd be better off without me. Go on with your life, have children… enjoy life. Because I never will, and you'd be wasted by the things that drive me."

John was speechless for a moment and before he could figure out what to say about that, Sherlock switched topics.

"I can't think, my brain is so misty I do all sorts of stupid things only _normal_ people do. My observing skills are down to _your_ level, or even worse, you see things I don't. I'm clueless, my mind is dulled and blinded and clouded. I want to go back… back to being a machine," Sherlock was finally showing a bit of agitation, but nothing that was suitable to the message in his words.

John closed his eyes, trying to get a grip.

Well aware that he had been the one who had accused Sherlock of being a machine in the last real conversation before the 'note', before the world had changed for ever... before everything went wrong.

At that day John had yelled at him, had been angry with him.

In the past two years John had repeated that conversation in his head, over and over, asking himself what he could have done to prevent Sherlock from committing suicide, wondered if he had rubbed it in and given him an additional push with his harsh words.

When John opened his eyes Sherlock was back to just staring ahead blindly, his face not showing any emotion or turmoil, just emptiness.

"You can't. I mean, it won't work. I was wrong, you _never_ were a machine and you never will be. You can't go. I won't survive if you leave me again… I won't, Sherlock… Don't do this to me."

This egoistic notion was the only real argument John had, the only thing he knew Sherlock might listen to, at least if it was really true and he had done the whole thing because he wanted to protect John.

Sherlock didn't react.

"I know what is happening to you. Right now you are sliding down a vortex. This is a depression speaking, and the worst thing you can do is going with it. You need to fight it."

"I have nothing left to fight with. Everything I had is depleted."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This and the following chapter were originally one piece, and they were the first chapter for this story I actually wrote what now feels ages ago.  
> Sorry I had to divide this conversation, it was way to long (eight pages up to this point and eight more to follow).  
> There are a few repetitions in this chapter, things have been said before, but since repeating bad facts and thoughts again and again is a depression thing (and also, though in a different way, an Asperger's thing) I use this to underline Sherlock being stuck in this. Besides, many things have been discussed but not by the two of them..


	71. Friday morning - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys continue to have a difficult talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

"I have nothing left to fight with."

"I know… It feels like defeat. I've been there; I know how ugly this feels. Let me help… And if you don't want to see anybody about it…"

"I won't," Sherlock's tone was hard.

"Right, I know. I won't make you, but this is getting too much… We need to prevent this from getting out of control… and I'm obviously not enough to give you the help you need… your depression is worsening… So, please… take some meds… We need to get a grip on this…" Only after John had spoken he realised he somehow was doing what Ella had suggested, he put some pressure on Sherlock, urged him to take part and decide he needed to get better, even if he didn't like the paths to get there.

Sherlock took breath to answer but John was faster.

"If you don't do it for yourself do it for me… I… need… you."

The detective still stood motionless and in silence.

They had been at a similar point what felt like ages ago, before the first mind palace session. John assumed this was part of the daily fight and remembered it had been similar when he had been in the hospital during his rehabilitation.

He had been devastated and unmotivated and every day was torture. In dire needed for someone either to give him some TLC or to kick his ass to get some motivation back. But no one was there, which was mabybe the worst aspect of it all. His life had been so empty and useless and he'd never forget how that felt.

Sherlock probably sensed feelings different, but the horror of it must be the same. John was ready to kick him every minute of every fucking day if necessary to make sure he knew he was not alone.

He was aware that Sherlock would not be able to ask for help, he probably didn't know what he needed and he was probably also more lost than ever in his life.

Without warning Sherlock suddenly turned around with an angry stare in his eyes and his hands in fists.

"Why don't you leave me alone?" Sherlock yelled.

John saw him shivering with but wasn't sure why.

What was it? Anger? Fear? Panic?

He did a step towards John and the doctor wondered if he had gone too far. The expression on Sherlock's face showed something that was probably anger.

The delayed rage took him by surprise.

"It's alright to be angry," he tried to soothe. Mary had said he needed to be open minded, welcome him and listen. Now that his own anger had evaporated he needed to be outgoing with Sherlock, to soften the blow he had just thrown at him.

John felt quite bad about having lost control like this a few moments before.

"I am not angry. Go back to your life and let me alone! I am fine!" Sherlock continued, his face was distorted with anger or… disgust or something the doctor couldn't identify.  

John did the only thing he could think off, he made a step forward with raised hands.

"Doesn't happen," he said in a very low and calm voice.

Hurt was oozing out of Sherlock, his defeated posture made John realise he had the urge to comfort him but he couldn't figure out how to actually do it. There was nothing he could do and he felt bloody helpless once more.

The only thing he'd do with every other human being - except Sherlock - was…

He made another step and came to a stop directly in front of Sherlock.

"Sherlock, what do you feel right now?" he asked carefully.

"I don't know," Sherlock's choked in a similar low voice.

There were a few moments of silence.

"Good or bad?"

"Not good."

"Sad? Angry?"

"Frustrated."

"You realise you describe every negative feeling as 'frustrated', do you?" John probed carefully. This whole conversation was a mess but at least Sherlock was talking to him at all.

"No… Yes."

"Can you actually distinguish between anger and frustration?"

"I don't know."

"When you throw things against the wall, what does it feel like? You must know. Why do you do it?"

"I don't know. Just… venting."

"Yeah, but _what_ do you vent?"

"Frustration."

"Right. Are you angry at me for punching you?"

"No."

"Are you frustrated that I punched you?"

"No."

"Shit, are you glad I punched you?"

"I deserved it."

"That was not the question."

To his surprise the doctor suddenly realised they were suddenly not only talking but also Sherlock was opening up, answering his questions.

What the hell had changed within ten seconds that they were finally doing this?

"I hoped it would make you feel better," Sherlock explained.

"Seriously?... Er... That was not actually what I wanted to know, mate."

"I don't know."

"I will touch you," John warned.

Oh, hell.

Sherlock was a human being after all, and he had coped with John touching him before.

So when Sherlock didn't step back and continued to look away, the doctor stepped even closer, standing directly in front of the other man.

Then he moved up his arms and wrapped him in a careful hug.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock sucked in air in surprise and stiffened even more, but didn't try to move away.

John feared a more violent eruption might happen any moment and he held his breath. He expected to be told his sentiment was disgusting and useless, but nothing like that happened.

His friend had started trembling, but obviously was too stunned to react. John didn't dare to move either, and they stood there for almost fifteen seconds before John managed to gulp down his sorrow and blinked the tears threatening to fall from his eyes.

"I'm sorry I punched you… and that I was so very angry. I've already forgiven you, you know that, right?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Please, let me get you some stuff that dims those dark thoughts. Just for a few weeks… Please… When I came back from Afghanistan I… they offered me meds, and I refused. I had never taken ADs before and was not eager, but at some point I realised I needed more help than I thought and I gave it a try. It was not that I liked it, but it smoothed the path a bit, gave me the chance to have more strength for recovering. It was a necessary evil and I think you are at a similar point."

The doctor waited to see if it was the topic of medication that was getting to Sherlock so much, but the other man said nothing.

"Sherlock. I forgave you, but now you must forgive yourself, too."

John felt hot wetness on his face and was grateful that Sherlock couldn't see them. At least he managed to keep his voice in check.

Maybe they should _both_ take something, he thought with sarcasm, this was neither very manly nor very British and proof enough they were both doing the opposite of well.

Sherlock hadn't moved the tiniest bit, and John didn't dare to break the contact to take a closer look at his face. Sherlock would have shoved him away if he had wanted to, though he was tense and passive, not responding at all.

John became worried, had he done the wrong thing? Messed it up even more than it already was?

Then Sherlock minutely let his head sink down and leaned it against the top of his shoulder with the slightest of touch.

John held his breath.

He felt Sherlock trembling and the breathing was sounding more and more strained, like someone trying to suppress fierce emotions by sheer force of will.

When John felt Sherlock lean against him minutely he tightened his grip.

This was good, a tiny gesture of trust and acceptance.

John's heart started to feel lighter immediately.

"Sherlock,… what I said before… I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you with that. Yes, I was angry, a small part of me _is_ still angry, but this is not the important part, the other ninety-eight percent of me are _not_ angry any longer. Don't concentrate on those two percents. Let's both just wait until they are gone… They will vanish sooner or later," John tried to do what Mary had suggested, explain his emotions so Sherlock could understand what was going on and not misinterpreting things.

"Don't think this small part it is what I think, or want to hold onto. The important thing is… that you are _alive_ … and to make you… _us_ better and get over hurting about this. You know, almost dying trying to safe me and then kill me by killing yourself is kind of nonsense. And I don't want to be heading into that. And you don't either… Sherlock, I'm sorry I yelled. Those were words of anger, and the anger will be visible sometimes, but it's not what is important."

Sherlock still didn't move. This was the most trusting and vulnerable he had ever seen the man, this was profound.

They stood there, just stood.

Sherlock needed almost three minutes until his breathing finally lost the stuttering rhythms.

Another minute later John felt him sway slightly.

"Sherlock, what is it?"

The detective seemed to fight with something stronger again.

John let go of him to see his face, it was a mask, but the turmoil was clearly visible in his eyes.

"We need to sit down," the doctor whispered and tried to gently guide him sideways to sit on the sofa, but Sherlock refused to move.

"John, I…"

"What is it?"

Sherlock's distress was growing and it started to freak John out.

"I… I did…" Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut.

"What, Sherlock?" John asked, alarmed.

"… something stupid."

"Sherlock?"

When he didn't answer immediately John did something out of impulse, he grasped the other man's lowered head with both hands, careful but determined, and made him look into his face.

"What did you do, Sherlock?" he was well aware there was a lot of anxiety in his voice.

"I… I took morphine… I mean I had a minor relapse… I'm …"

"Shit!" John let go of Sherlock's face and the detectives head sunk low without the touch again.

"Are you high?"

"Not _now_ …. Few nights ago."

"Jesus," John fell into the sofa heavily and pressed his fingers into his eyes, he was feeling kind of sick.

"How much?"

"Small dose."

"How often?"

"Once."

"Really? What else?"

"Nothing."

"Come on, Sherlock. Tell me. Just once is kind of not really believable."

"My secret hoard was discovered and removed before I had the chance..."

"What? By whom?" John remembered Mycroft had been in the flat several times, must have been him then.

"I am sorry."

"Er, Sherlock," the doctor didn't know what to say and looked up at the man still standing in the same position. John stood up and took him by the shoulders.

"Sit down with me."

He shoved Sherlock into the seating and sat down next to him.

John realised he had used the other man's name repeatedly because Sherlock seemed kind of out of it, absent... maybe dissociating slightly. He tried to keep him in the present, but was not sure this was working at all.

 

Sherlock leaned forward immediately and rested his elbows on his knees, buried his head in his hands.

John watched him closely, sitting on the edge of the seat.

This was _so_ not good.

He was lost for words and shocked. But Sherlock had just entrusted him with something serious.

"Do you feel the urge to go out and get new stuff?... _other_ stuff?"

"I don't know."

At least that was honest.

"Do you think you could tell me if you felt like it?"

"I don't know."

There was a long silence between them, and the not-moving thing on Sherlock's side made John really worried because he was also almost not breathing.

Was he that afraid of John's reaction?

"Why did you take it?"

There was another long silence.

"I needed a break, from all this… from everything, from the world…" Sherlock let his hands sink between his knees and his head sagged even further down.

"When was that exactly?"

"Monday night."

"Oh, bloody hell," John whispered, it was the night he had had kind of a meltdown after a nightmare about Sherlock's fall.

"You heard me, didn't you?"

There was no reaction for long time and John repeated the question.

Sherlock was obviously reluctant to answer.

Finally he just nodded.

"It stressed you so much you needed to dull the pain."

Another nod.

"Oh god, I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to feel sorry about," Sherlock grunted, slightly unnerved, rubbing his flat hands over his face.

"Yes, I do. During the past days I had nightmares every night and I myself am at a point where it would be smart to take some ADs. I decided I'll start as soon as Sarah writes me a prescription. How about you do the same? You're right, you need a bit of a break, something to ease this a bit, something legal and controlled, no drugs but _medicine_."

There were almost two minutes of silence before Sherlock nodded and John understood he was accepting the suggestion.

"Some mild ADs then?"

Sherlock nodded once more.

"Would you like something else, too?... Anti-anxiety stuff?"

Sherlock shook his head; John had expected that. This was more than he had hoped for and the ADs would be his first choice, too if he was Sherlock. There were still the meds for emergencies John had in store if need arises.

The doctor was relieved Sherlock had agreed on one hand but on the other it made him very uneasy because this really proved how close to the bottom his friend was. Hitting the ground might be fatal… The drugs would need at least two weeks until it worked properly, Sherlock would need someone here constantly, at least until then.

Letting him alone might be really dangerous according to what he had heard a few minutes ago.

John put his hand on the other man's back and rubbed slowly up and down twice to give Sherlock some more comfort, still anxious his hand might be shoved away.

But Sherlock sat up a bit, rubbed his face with his hands again and then leaned sideways – away from John - and sank down on the sofa, his feet still on the ground.

John stood up and made room for him when Sherlock rested his forearm over his eyes.

Then he went and put the kettle on. While it heated up he fetched a wet hot towel from the bathroom and returned to Sherlock's side.

The detective hadn't moved and John tipped his knee to signal him he should lift his legs onto the seat.

Since Sherlock's hand was hanging in the air John gently placed the cloth into it.

"Want some tea?" he asked carefully.

Sherlock nodded and when John headed back to the kitchen he saw Sherlock unfold the cloth and then place it over his forehead and his eyes, which confirmed John's theory that Sherlock was developing a massive headache, probably caused by the tension.

"You want something to help you sleep?"

"John… You know my standard answer to that. I… this is… don't ask me. I can't… I won't. Decide and go with it. Do not ask me, because the answer will always be the same. If you think it needs override, don't ask me, because asking feels like betrayal... or like you want me to refuse."

John's internal jaw dropped. This was quite an interesting statement.

In his world _not_ asking felt like betrayal.

This was about trust, wasn't it?

He remembered the conversation with Lestrade. _'Just do it, he can't ask. Be brisk.'_

Sherlock was prompting him to do the same right now!

Why wasn't he able to just say 'yes'?

John realised he had just found another issue he had been too blind to see, though he couldn't quite grasp it.

"But drugging you would also be betrayal."

"Yes."

"That's nonsense. What's the point?"

"No medications like that."

"Right."

Sherlock was the greatest control freak he had ever met. Well, the only thing John was sure off right now was that it meant trust, loads of trust.

The conversation had been quite a roller coaster and he felt quite spent, Sherlock probably wasn't better after his confession.

Since he had learned that Sherlock had taken drugs right in the beginning of their friendship he had wondered about what would happen if Sherlock had a relapse. He had never thought the other man would actually tell him that he had taken anything, especially not if John hadn't noticed on his own.

He had always thought if Sherlock had a relapse they'd shout at each other, Sherlock denying everything. Or that Sherlock would behave as if it was the most normal thing in the world, having none of the fuss John made about it.

This scenario was definitely the last he had expected, as was the choice of drug. Not cocaine to help him concentrate, but morphine to kill the pain - mental pain and maybe a bit of physical pain, too.

It was kind of surrender, first to the opiate and now to John.

On the other hand, this was good, probably the biggest step towards healing since the latest mind palace session, which was much too long ago for John's liking.

Deep in his thoughts, he stood in front of the kettle and it took quite some time to realise the water had started to boil some time ago.

The confidence Sherlock had just gifted him with affected him deeply and he fought tears once more while pouring water over the tea bags.

"You feel safe enough to sleep?" he asked once he was back in the living room.

"I don't want to sleep."

Sherlock had finally lifted his feet onto the sofa and was properly lying down now, thought his lower arm was still covering his eyes. He looked miserable and was trembling a bit.

"Yes, you do," John fetched a blanket and spread it over him.

"When have you last slept?"

John remembered his friend still had his shoes on.

"Some…"

"Yeah?" the doctor flipped back the duvet from Sherlock's feet and removed the shoes. Sherlock dragged his knees up as soon as he was finished and leaned them limply against the back rest.

"Sleep, Sherlock."

"Thank you, John," Sherlock mumbled, clearly exhausted.

"You're welcome," John answered as soon as he had recovered from the surprise about the words.

Saying thank you, that was new, too. Though he wasn't sure what he had done to be thanked for.

"Get some sleep."

"I hate sleep."

"I know, waste of time, stupid, only for normal people," John mocked kindly.

"No… nightmares," Sherlock deadpanned, removing the smile from the doctor's face immediately.

"Alright. Feel free to wake me if they get bad, you know I don't mind, right?… Just knock at my door... or text me."

John was sure Sherlock would sleep like a stone for at least a few hours.

He felt reminded of the moment where Sherlock had fallen out of bed after Irene had drugged him, out of his mind, uncoordinated and vulnerable.

Like back then he padded Sherlock's shoulder.

"And please... wake me if it gets too bad or you feel a certain urge… or if you just want company, we don't need to talk, we can just watch TV or talk about the case."

He expected Sherlock would make a dismissing remark but he just mumbled, "'kay."

 

John stayed with him and watched him sleep the entire morning and early afternoon, the news about the relapse heavy in his stomach, but the trust warmed his soul.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this wasn't too fluffy, but I really think Sherlock needed a hug from John after his return. Not too soon because John was still so angry, but in the end of the episode would have been nice. I loved that Greg did it, though.


	72. Friday afternoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

 

John called Mary around noon to tell her about the conversation he had with Sherlock. She was very uneasy with what he told her but explained she was sure her future husband had the situation under control and promised to pick up the meds on the way home, so Sherlock could start to take them as soon as possible.

In the early afternoon John decided to take a nap, too. His stomach had started to rebel from all the stress and he decided lying down for a bit would do him good.

Since Sherlock was still asleep and John also felt leaden tiredness constricting him he climbed up the stairs to his old room, but when he lay down he left all the doors wide open to be sure to hear any kind of trouble.

 

A loud noise from downstairs made him sit up suddenly, before he was even fully awake.

He immediately knew it was Sherlock's voice that had woken him, but could not figure out if it was a bad or neutral noise.

Still half asleep he hurried down the stairs.

Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the sofa, rubbing his eyes in quite a forceful way.

"Hey," John greeted him, "What's happening?"

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say something, but then just shut it again, out of words, it seemed.

"Sherlock?"

"He's… he's…." Sherlock burst out without introduction, "…he's in there."

"What the hell?… Who's where? What's going on?"

" _Someone_ is in the mind palace and flooded a whole level... I need to find him! He needs to go…" Sherlock almost babbled, an odd mixture of disbelief and outrage.

"What?"

"I can't stand an intruder! Especially not _him_. I need to hunt him down."

"Who?… "John stammered dozily.

The other man was clearly uneasy and agitated.

"Calm down, Sherlock. It's fine, we'll find him," he tried to reassure his friend.

"I need to repair the mind palace."

"Yeah. No news, that one."

"I can't solve the case without the palace," Sherlock sprang up and started running up and down the room.

" _You_ were the one who refused a 'mind-palace-fixing-session' on several occasions when I offered."

"Obviously, I was not in the mood and I didn't need assistance."

"You agreed to let me help," John stood up and stepped in Sherlock's way, interrupting his nervous pacing.

"Yes... Sorry, please do assist… Sorry. Habit... What do we do?" Sherlock stopped in his tracks.

"Okay, sit down…."

Sherlock did, on the sofa.

"So let's have some tea so I have time to wake up fully and then give it a go."

There was a long silence in which Sherlock obviously tried to calm down and get into the right mindset to do this.

"You get tea and wake up while I try to go ahead to the swarm-prison," the detective then suggested.

"Oh, it has a name, now? - No, you wait for me!"

"Well, _I_ don't need names, you do. I know what I'm doing, but communicating content sometimes needs those, as your blog entries do, those are equally stupid."

"Hey, hey, I was not criticising, I was just doing conversation," John was halfway into the kitchen.

After he had switched on the kettle he decided coffee would be the better choice.

When he returned three minutes later Sherlock was lying down with his eyes closed. Dammit, why couldn't he just wait a few moments?

"How can we make sure you don't meet… the intruder? And how the hell do you know there is someone in there at all?"

"I saw him… before… No, sensed him, when I cleaned out the rubble.** I felt like being watched, like shadows lurking in the dark, movement behind me. I was not sure if I had really seen it, but now I am. I just dreamt about that mind palace session, and it was more… physical. It's more a ghost than a person, male, large, bulky."

"Hang on. You had a nightmare about your mind palace? Does that happen often?"

"No... Well, sometimes. Usually the building I dream about do not look like my mind palace, they are more like… a maze or a ruin sometimes, something abandoned or mysterious, haunted, dangerous… I dream of those kinds of houses since I'm a child, though I - in general - rarely dream at all. I also still revisit houses I saw first when I was a child," Sherlock informed, "… er, dreamscape houses I mean."

"That's odd," John frowned and wondered what a therapist would say about that.

"No, it's not," Sherlock argued.

"Well, fine. The more important thing is how do we protect you from that intruder?"

"Indeed. I have no idea, other than try to face him and throw everything at him I have. The part to prevent an ambush is the most… difficult."

"That's how it feels what he's doing?"

"What could flooding the palace be other than a hidden attack? Or burning things down?"

"You sure he did that?"

"To be honest - no. Might have been some other aggressor or… or… circumstances."

"We need a strategy. I mean grabbing a P90 won't do the job, right?"

"Such as? I doubt this is a problem solved by firepower... I could built a wall and prevent him from following."

"Okay, good idea. Something else?"

"Second thoughts, I might take a gun, it's not a bad idea overall."

"Erm, right," John smiled, imagining Sherlock with a machine gun Rambo style.

A moment later Sherlock just leaned back and stayed quiet.

After two minutes of just waiting John decided to speak.

"You think that's enough?"

When the other man didn't react he asked, "Are you there, yet?" in a low voice.

"Yes, just entered the lab… the prison I mean."

"Everything as it should be?"

It took almost two minutes until Sherlock answered, "Yes, everything as I left it… as it seems."

"Seal the door tightly and check the perimeter."

Sherlock grinned, it looked only a bit exaggerated and the former soldier assumed his previous occupation's typical language was the cause.

"You left in a bit of a hurry. Do we need to deal with something half finished?" John then asked.

Another minute passed.

"Er…" Sherlock seemed a bit disgusted.

"What is it?"

"The hive is still here, seems the containment measures were successful, though there are numerous smears on the walls and everything is a bit chaotic… It seems to have… moved around and has grown a bit…"

"Okay, you want to proceed like last time?"

"Yes, let me get the equipment."

In the meantime John went to get his coffee.

Four minutes later, when Sherlock was still silent, he asked, "You're ready?"

"Yes," Sherlock mumbled, hesitation clear in his voice, "The rat tail is in formaldehyde and smelling bad… I want to weld it shut… into something… or better burn it."

"Sounds good," John sat down in his armchair.

"D'… done," Sherlock reported, a suppressed coughing interrupted him, "preparing to dismantle the swarm further now."

John sipped his coffee and watched his fraught friend.

"Maybe you should construct a waste incineration… something for this, I mean there might be some more things you need to destroy, or maybe a dust bin would be good."

"No."

"Why not?"

"I need to do this one at a time and fully conscious to the process. If it happens out of sight it wouldn't work… no putting it somewhere else where it could cause havoc… and no other connections to the outside via a disposal system."

"Oh, right… That's… good thinking, thorough, I mean. Got your protective gear on?"

"No," Sherlock was mentally rolling his eyes, John knew from his tone.

"You know you should."

"Yesss," Sherlock hissed, "Happy now?"

"You know I can't see you, right?" John smiled.

"Eurgh... What the hell...?" Sherlock grunted, and a moment later gave another unnerved sound.

"What?" John asked, a bit alarmed about the disgust in the detective's voice.

"This… thing is already dead. Smells dead, acts dead, is decomposing…" he explained.

"You plugged something out off the swarm, didn't you?… What does it stand for?"

"I don't know. But a normal corpse smells like roses in comparison to this."

"Find out what it is about and get rid off it."

Sherlock seemed to suppress a gag when he pressed the back of his hand over his mouth.

"Hey, you said you are wearing the gear, aren't you?"

"Yes," Sherlock pressed out, "Forgot… forgot the sage leaves, getting them now," he explained.*

"What do you think it might stand for?"

"Me being dead?"

John winced, it was plump but it might be true, and Sherlock had answered without hesitation.

"It feels as dead as I did when I was…"

"Go on," John tried to encourage him when he kept silent for almost a minute after starting the sentence.

"I'm not sure this is wise…"

"Why not?"

"I don't want to… This is private."

"You think it can get any more private than this? This is about _sharing_. Since when do you care about privacy? You agreed, now do it."

"This is different..."

"This is about you not wanting to tell me something because you think I might react - I won't... So, tell me."

The other man hesitated for some long moments before he finally found the words to try to explain.

"I… was alone, it… it hurt. I was desperate. The need to have company was overwhelming and it did cause quite some damage while I was in Hamburg. I never felt as dead as I felt there."

"What happened?" John asked carefully.

"I had nightmares… night terrors. I felt myself… dying…. Not like normally people dream of dying and then wake up in the last moment. I _felt_ it, felt the process. Experienced the life leave my body, beyond recall… final. Returning to London seemed to be out of reach."

"Jesus, I'm sorry. I know how that feels, Sherlock, I've been there, I had those dreams, too. Reliving the process of being near death... It's a devastating sensation. And you can't just switch it off. I couldn't… any ideas of how to deal with those memories?"

"No," Sherlock breathed.

"Okay, those belong to the most horrible experiences of the whole PTSD experience. Never found another way than letting out the grief and desperation. Scream, stamp on them, just let it go…"

"I don't understand…"

"Or maybe you can wrap them into something and hand them over to me?" John suggested.

"What good would that do since you can't handle them either?"

"To get them out of the palace… Right. Maybe I can't. How about you pack them tight so they can't move?"

"They're already dead, they don't move, that's the point. And I don't want you to have to handle those… You have enough trouble with this… thing"

John raised his eyebrows, in this moment he felt not like shut out but in fact protected.

"I… How about you try to give them a burial, spread their ashes somewhere far away, honouring the sacrifice this was for you and me?"

Ella had suggested something similar to John in his first bout of therapy, to ritually bury certain things. Although he had never done it, he now suggested it to Sherlock. It felt odd, but maybe the detective was able to convert this into something meaningful that might help him.

"That would confirm that I died and have to vanish from the face of the earth. The question is... does this… element need to be 'revived'...  I'll put it down and think of it later… Next one."

John was not sure this was a good idea but went on with Sherlock's actions.

An hour later Sherlock had revealed a pile of new details and thoughts about Moriarty's web and the fight against it, his actions to hunt down the evil man's associates. One detail was more horrible than the next, but some brought light on things John didn't dare to ask, like Sherlock's damaged toes.

There were also some details they both grinned about, though those were rare and ridiculous, like Sherlock's long hair.

Then there were others the detective seemed even a bit ashamed about. John was glad they had something that was not breathtakingly horrible and provided some relaxation for a change. It went on easier after that initial first bad hour. Sherlock sank deeper into the task then, explaining less and less to John about what was happening.

In the end Sherlock had been on the sofa for three hours and besides a few surprised huffs and once or twice a suck in of air that sounded like another bad surprise he hadn't moved  for quite some time, neither spoken or reacted to his surroundings in any way.

The doctor started thinking of how to gently interrupt, because Sherlock would work himself into total exhaustion like this - again. On the other hand Sherlock needed to feel some self-determination, so John decided he'd let it happen, at least as long as it wasn't too absurd or Sherlock's reactions not too horrible.

Now and then he said something, just to signal he was still with his him and guarding the situation, expressed something soothing or relaxing when his friend tensed a bit.

 

When Sherlock finally stirred John moved over to be a bit closer and asked in a low voice, "Everything alright?"

"I built a new level," Sherlock answered without having opened his eyes.

"Oh, all alone?"

"No, you were here the whole time."

"I was?" John joked, knowing quite well he hadn't left Sherlock alone for more than a few seconds to get more coffee or use the loo.

"You are mocking me, aren't you?"

"Yes," John smiled, "What happened?"

"I started to built a new level, took some time. I tried to create it without any connections to the old ones. It's more like a new palace on top of the old one. One just for this case, different entrance, only from the roof. And there are loads of one-way routes and safety mechanisms. I hope I can later build in doors and stairways that connect it to the old areas… as soon as it is safe."

"What use is it all alone? You said before it was futile."

"Well, it kind of is… Just giving it a go. Only the case information is inside, yet. I need to work on making the old one safe again, too, but not now. This was more important."

John smiled at him; Sherlock was putting effort in trying to work on his issues.

.

"Sherlock, go with Lestrade. Do some deductions and solve something…" John said two hours later.

"Why aren't you coming?"

"I need some time to organise a few things. Just go, do something interesting."

"Oh, you mean you need time to do something… intimate... with…?"

John's mouth opened and he blushed, Sherlock had always been more direct about this topic than he liked.

"No… Yes… maybe… I mean…"

"It's fine… fine. Do have some nice-time with your future wife… I will stay away for a few hours."

John didn't even realise Sherlock was agreeing to leave his own home assuming they'd use the free time to have sex or whatever couples did, instead of suggesting they go to their real home and do it there.

His former flatmate vanished into the bathroom and when he returned to the kitchen he was in his dress suit and had the new scarf – the one he was wearing since his return - already in his hands.

John had just stood there, the whole time. He needed Sherlock safe and somewhere else. Those were his only priorities after he had texted Lestrade and told him he needed him to baby-sit Sherlock for the evening.

Greg had agreed without any further questions, Sherlock had asked to participate in the observation, anyway.

The doctor felt the urgent need for some alone-time.

"Are you frozen or something?" Sherlock asked while picking up this coat.

"No. I move quite a lot, just not in the past minute. I need to plan the weekend, I'll be busy."

"What about the weekend?" Sherlock slipped into the coat.

"Mary will come over on Sunday afternoon. She'll stay at our house the rest of the time."

"What? She is staying there? Why?" Sherlock stopped mid-movement and seemed honestly unsettled about this.

"She… she thought it would be better for the both of us to… do some… I mean… She wants to give us some space."

"Will she stay over at your place?"

"Yes. That's what I just said, didn't I?"

"Why? Did I do it wrong?"

"No, you didn't, she just needs to do… things. Not everything is about you, Sherlock," the doctor tried to explain, although this was all about the detective as far as he understood it.

"Well, she is… good for you… I mean she kept you alive and all…"

John gulped, the utterance hit him harder than it should.

Sherlock must have realised it because he frowned. "Not good?"

"No."

"Sorry. I meant… I..."

"I know. It's okay. I got it. Go out and do some surveillance or have fun hunting criminals."

A car horn honked outside and John assumed it was Greg.

"Coming," Sherlock hurried down the stairs.

John headed into his room.

He desperately felt he needed to do _something -_ clear his head.

But before he had time to think of anything he was on his bed, his new book unopened in his hand, and had fallen asleep again.

 

 

* * *

 

_*The thing with the sage leaves happed in chapter 31 and 32, when Sherlock is quite distressed about some memories._

_** Refers to Chapter 44 of this story._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started a new story.   
> Title: 'Pain Management'.   
> It's a collection of missing scenes from HLV, loads of H/C and pain, just in case someone wants to check it out.


	73. Saturday, wee hours of the morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock can't get his mind off the conversation he had earlier with John .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

 

Sherlock and Lestrade sat in the cold car observing the flat, but it was quite dull, then it became unnerving when Lestrade tried to find out how Sherlock was doing.

Since he was not eager to talk, Sherlock blocked that topic vehemently.

The memories of the previous morning were still sore and fresh in his mind. Elements of the awkward conversation he had with John resurfaced as soon as there was silence in the car, which made him ponder about what had been said all night.

Parts of their conversation were running back and forth through his mind, alive and ugly, he was unable to push them away.

Finally, self-observation and reflection led to the understanding that he couldn't remember that he had ever felt so very defeated and at the end of all things as he had this morning.

Being this useless and raw with sentiment had left dark lingering shadows in his soul, which were equally paralysing as the feeling of being vulnerable.

When he was honest with himself, he had to admit that things seemed to get worse with every passing day, not better.

He only saw one way out.

Not being able to work or function or think was horrible.

During their argument he realised how left alone in space he really was.

Like there was nothing more he could do.

Not able to move in the void of gravity and the vacuum.

And then John had stepped in.

Had tried to provide gravity.

His own brutal logic told him he was not able to rescue himself like this, he might need help.

He was not been sure he wanted it.

Then John made it quite clear: both of them or no one.  

So there was only option left: save John by saving himself - only he couldn't.

He definitely needed help, the bitter insight made him feel as nauseous and vertiginous as he had been during their conversation.

The thing was he had nothing left to try to get this under control, all the unhealthy strategies he had used in the past were out of the question or had proven they didn't work any longer. He was at a point where he was so disoriented with existence and all the whys and hows that he just couldn't decide how to proceed, or if at all.

But John had assumed control.

He had hated people doing that so much all his life, Mycroft, his parents, teachers who thought they knew better.

Sherlock was well aware that he was a control freak, had always been. He had never thought it possible for him to give away control - until now.

Now, he had.

To the only person who he trusted to take over: John.

John was different.

The moment when John had touched him - hugged him - had caused a rush of emotions that stunned him.

He couldn't remember he had ever been hugged like this. It had been ages that he had been embraced at all, and that was by his mother, although she knew very well that he preferred not to be touched.

Sherlock felt like his mind had been carried, something was sustained that had been about to collapse within him.

In the beginning the shock about the touch had taken his breath away, but John did it with so much implicitness that he was able to accept it. For a long moment though he had to fight his reflex to escape the touch, but it soon turned into John not constricting him, but supporting him.

John's physical contact was an odd thing.

After he had a few moments to get used to it, it felt not too bad, but he wouldn't think of it as a good thing in general.

In general he didn't like physical fondness - especially not like this - but at that particular moment it felt soothing and reminded him of the brotherly love John had shown so often before the fall - though never in such an intimate way before.

The doctor had reached in and touched something he didn't know could be touched, a fragile mass of which's existence he was quite surprised, a quivering core, fragile and hidden from his own understanding, softly glowing in the dark.

When he had minutely leaned into the embrace it was as if his body did it on its own. A moment later he felt as if John was a rock to lean on, so solid and safe and sure of the path that might lead to safety.

He didn't dare to hope, but it was so good to give a bit of the decision-making to someone else.

It was such a burden, so much back and forth in his mind, caused even more irresolution. There were so many thoughts about every tiny thing, which made making decisions kind of impossible. He felt confused, overwhelmed and empty.

And John had offered to stir for a bit, he felt lighter with this.

John deserved that his suggestions were being heard and followed, at least he could do that for a while, since he wasn't able to do much of anything else anyway.

The leaden pressure on his skull was still present and reminded him of the swirling grey maelstrom his mind currently was. As soon as he forgot to focus and force his stream of thoughts into the right path, it span out of control and dwelled in depressive areas. He needed to channel his mind more than usual and it was so very exhausting.

Whenever he failed to do so his consciousness went down a vortex of dark thoughts, which led to more memories of the past two years, that came up again and again and dragged him deeper and deeper, caused desperation and sorrow and grief and regret and… He had known those go-around-in-circles- thoughts since he was a child, but not to this extend and so incapacitating. It was an altered state of mind, one he was way too familiar with, but the intensity was so much worse.

But John was there, had shown a way. This whole process and fighting it took so much energy.

Having John help with this _could be_ relief, for the first time he really considered leaning on somebody else like this, relying on another person's judgement... but he had done that before, John had always been a reliable... person to him. Just not with this kind of baggage, this kind of problem.

He'd do it.

He'd try the pills.

He didn't like the idea, but he was out of options.

A large part of him was ashamed that he wasn't able to manage this on his own, but John was the only one he'd allow to do this, allow to see his wounds and vulnerability.

John had been there, knew how it felt.

He had never imagined sensations, sentiment and desperation like this existed. Of course he had heard the words of people – and John – describing how bad this felt, but this was different.

He was experiencing things now he had not considered as important as they were for other people while they were there. Things that couldn't just explained away with logic. Other people _had_ been there, had lived through it – not with the same sensory issues and the same eidetic memory - but his respect for those was growing.

This all was unexpectedly intense and hopeless and dark, overwhelming and ugly.

Also he'd never though it even possible to reveal as much as he had shared with John, and here the doctor was, still assisting him without question, unconditional affection in a platonic way.

It frightened him.

It was more than he had expected could exist for him. It was just more than he deserved and could handle.

He couldn't grasp the concept.

Finally, his mind had shut down while John had held him.

It was a startling experience.

Two extremes, itching to shove John away on one hand and on the other wanting to allow him to see everything, bare it all. But he had not enough words to communicate it.

So much had changed… and so little.

He suddenly understood why giving in to John's care was not surrendering but receiving friendship, as Mary had suggested before. Back then he had not understood, but now, in the cold dark silence of the night, he suddenly did.

He had been on stakeout during his time away quite often and how it felt to be alone in the dark returned to him with full vengeance... and he never wanted to feel like that again.

The trust he received from them both - John and Mary - created something that felt like a soft blue translucent bubble that now encased his mind in the dark.

And then he suddenly was fully back in his body, out of his dark thoughts and felt the dire need to escape the density of the Lestrade's car. He needed to have a break from all his thoughts and memories, so he had gone for a short walk and a smoke.

 

When he returned and rounded the observed house he had seen something a few meters away under a bush, but only because it reflected the orange glow of the streetlights, which  were quite dark for a London area. At first he had thought it was a piece of aluminium foil wrapping, but when he had crawled under the bushes it turned out to be a single key on a large ring - a high tech sort of key - with some shreds of dark blue fabric left on the ring, artificial leather. Something must have been ripped off, probably some kind of fob. Subsequently Sherlock had taken his time to comb through the bushes with his torch.

He had searched the area before, in daylight even, but the key was only visible under the thick bushes from a distance and due to the reflection of light and because the weed that lined the extended front yard had been trimmed recently. The thing was not even visible when he leaned down to investigate what caused the reflection, only after standing inside the hedge and bending bushes away had he been able to pick it up.

On closer inspection he noted that several bushes showed signs being shoved away, five metres away from the site of find almost all plants were damaged somehow: broken twigs and some ripped off leaves. But around the place of discovery there was even more damage. So he assumed this was in fact the work of their perpetrator, he must have observed the location from the hedge and then grabbed the girl, and she must have put up a real fight if the damage was any indication. He must have somehow prevented that she screamed and then dragged her into the bushes, or they had stumbled into them while fighting, which was less likely.

But the most interesting thing was that the key was engraved with a company logo, which happened to belong to a business that offered space in a large complex of storage warehouses in the outskirts of London, in an industrial area.

As soon as he had shown Lestrade his findings the DI called for relief and they hurried back to Scotland Yard.

Sherlock wanted to rush over to the storage complex to search it, but then let Greg and Mycroft convince him that it would do more harm than good and that they needed to collect further evidence to under girt the case. 

No one had expected he might give in this fast and it caused several raised eyebrows, which made him realise that something in him wanted John there.

It was odd, but now that he had waited for him to accompany him on cases again for so long he needed him to be there.

Sure, he had worked with Molly, but that had only amplified the dire need for John, had underlined how false it felt that he was not there.

John _needed_ to come with him.

The idea that he was not there felt… wrong.

Sherlock inwardly sniffed at his own sentiment, it was like a murky puddle that distracted him from the important things. But he was drawn back to the feeling of absenteeism like by a magnet, the absence popping up in his mind again and again. He knew this sensation, it had plagued him during his hiatus repeatedly.

When he realised the nagging sense of loss would not go away, he just accepted to pass the time to gather more intel with the Yarders until John was back with him.

A team was tailing Alexander Senior, who had been released from custody. They were in constant contact with the four units that took turns in surveillance, to hide their actions properly they rotated fast.

Absolutely nothing had happened there.

The man had gone home, ate, watched TV and went to bed.

No telephone calls, no internet, no nothing.

So Sherlock, Lestrade and Donovan spent the rest of the night reading lists of leaseholders, checked if they really existed, organised maps and marked who had rented what and so on. Until the morning they had found nothing interesting, and since it was important for the villain to keep his victim alive Sherlock was sure she was not in immediate danger for another few days. Though when stating that Donovan had bombarded him with a tirade about sociopaths and cold-blooded ignorance of a suffering victim's needs.

Sherlock retorted that she should better shut up since she had not experienced captivity herself and was therefore not a reliable source.

When Sally asked what that was supposed to mean Lestrade send her away with a few sharp words.

To his surprise Sherlock realised he had almost given her an honest and unnerved answer about how it felt to be captured, tortured and incapacitated for days.

He headed home to inform John about the events of the night.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started to publish another story.  
> A collection of missing scenes from HLV, the title is 'Pain Management' and it deals with all the off-screen pain that was present in the last episode of season 3. There will probably about 10 chapters in the end.  
> I'm really having a bad week and I needed to concentrate on something else, because, well, life really sucks - so I started publishing the story earlier than planned... Just saying, in case that somebody wants to check it out.


	74. Saturday, early hours of the morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes home to the flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

 

In the early hours of the morning Sherlock returned to Baker Street, his mind frizzing with the events of the past hours.

While he hurried up the stairs he drew breath to yell for John, but then remembered Mrs Hudson might be sleeping and John and Mary might be still… busy.

He entered the living room while listening carefully for any sign of life.

Nothing.

He found a large note pinned to his microscope, Mary's writing.

_John was asleep when I arrived, I let him sleep._

_Dinner in the fridge. See you on Sunday._

_@Sherlock: Eat something!_

_@John: Stuff in the bag._

_Love, Mary._

Sherlock frowned.

Hadn't John said he wanted some alone time?

Now that he thought about it, he realised he had _assumed_ the other man had meant time alone to be with Mary, but obviously she was not included.

Or had she changed plans when she found him asleep?

He had made assumptions without checking them - always a bad choice. This underlined his current out-of-order status and made him feel even more unreliable.

John had not objected Sherlock's assumption and used it as an excuse not to come.

There was something wrong about this.

Why didn't John want to join him?

The most silly ideas crossed his mind but he decided to ignore the topic for now and he reached out to boot his computer.

He stood in the middle of the living room, the memories of their earlier conversation still felt kind of unreal.

How long would this discussion haunt him?

He had already felt heavy and bone tired when he had opened the front door of 221 b, realised he was only still on his feet because of the dire need to report the events to John.

Probably, it would be inappropriate to wake him?

He had done that in the past and John had never been happy about it, he remembered, so he didn't.

Instead, he made tea and copied the pictures he had taken from his phone to his laptop.

It crossed his mind that it was almost funny, how so many things about this case were about keys, ridiculous even.

To his disgust, he didn't manage to go to bed, he sat in front of the computer staring at the walls until it was almost six in the morning and he heard someone coming down the stairs.

Clearly John, according to the sound of the steps, not getting up but heading to the bathroom.

Great, so he could tell him without waking him.

But the figure that moved directly through the dark kitchen and headed towards the loo  made him frown.

John was not in his pyjamas.

Two minutes later the doctor seemed to take the same route back but Sherlock stepped into the kitchen to head him off.

"John, I…" he started, but the sight of his former flatmate made him frown - again.

John was in the same trousers and shirt he had worn before, though they were heavily rumpled now.

The detective switched on the light and John winced, "Shit, Sherlock."

"What happened?"

"What? Nothing? I had to use the bathroom."

Concerned, Sherlock inspected his face closely.

The other man's eyes were swollen and looked tiny and red, his shirt was half tucked into his trousers and half hanging loose. John turned away under his close scrutiny.

"No, wait. What did you do?" Sherlock asked.

"Blimey. I slept for a change, you should try it sometimes. And now I'd like to continue doing so."

"It did you no good going by your looks."

John tried to vanish into the stairway but Sherlock carefully blocked his way.

"We found some new evidence, an important new lead."

"Great," John sounded as if he thought it was actually the opposite.

"I want you to come with me."

"What, now? Not interested."

"Er…," Sherlock noted that John looked really horrible, "No, bit later."

"Later is good. Now let me go back to sleep."

"What happened? Did you drink?"

"No?"

"Did you fight with Mary?"

"Hell, no!"

"Are you sick?"

That last question made John stop on the first step of the stairs.

"No, but… I've been better."

Sherlock didn't know what to say about that, so he decided to be practical.

"Oh… Er, Mary said some 'stuff is in the bag'."

"Really? You spoke to her? Please don't tell me you called her in the middle of the night." John seemed to realise Sherlock would not let him go so easily and turned back around.

"No. Post-it. Just came back," the detective offered, trying to hide the fact how long he had blankly stared at walls.

"Right. Where's the note?"

"Kitchen."

John went back and read the fine scribbling, then headed towards the fridge.

"Did you eat?"

"I said I just returned."

"Just?… Define _just_."

"That's hardly…," Sherlock started but was interrupted immediately.

"Shut up and let's have dinner. I slept, so... missed dinner, too," John sounded as bone tired as he felt.

"What? You slept since I left?"

"Not… the whole time, no," John answered slowly, busy not looking at him.

Sherlock frowned.

Had John had more bad nightmares?

Had he cried?

He surely looked like it. And he moved as if his shoulder was bothering him.

Was he supposed to address the obvious to show interest in his wellbeing and soothe him?

The doctor did that to him, though Sherlock hated it.

Would it be a nice gesture to return the _favour_?

When John had prepared the first plate and put it in the microwave he reached for a brown paper bag that was on the counter, obviously knowing what was in there he unpacked it.

With quite a bit of disappointment Sherlock realised he had completely failed to notice that it had shown up.

It seemed to be medication and a moment later the doctor held out a blister pack to his former flatmate.

"One in the evening," he softly explained.

Sherlock hesitated a moment and then took the pills.

Evening, that was a bit unusual.

John turned away and filled a glass with water, then unboxed another blister and swallowed one of the pills from it without turning around, a second pill from a bottle followed.

That was when Sherlock realised that John seemed not to have just _said_ that he'd take some meds, too out of sympathy. 

This fact felt kind of odd with a good portion of shame on top.

Seeing John swallow the pills felt awkward… and miserable.

The doctor seemed to share that sentiment because he remained with his back to Sherlock, unpacking more things from the bag, he seemed tense.

The microwave binged but neither of them reacted.

Sherlock stared at the blister in his hand and realised John was probably anxious he'd refuse to take the medication.

Well aware that the side effects would really get on his nerves, he eyed the packaging.

But if him taking them would make things easier for John he'd do it.

When he had agreed he had not been completely sure he would, but _now_ he was - after thinking about it the whole night and now seeing John's hunched shoulders and puffy eyes.

Slowly, he made the two steps it took to stand directly next to his friend.

He popped one pill out of the blister and reached for the glass John had just put down. It was still half full, then he washed it down with the rest of the water.

He could feel John relax next to him.

The bitter neon green tension stayed in the room though, he drew breath to speak but then realised that every time he had tried to ease some tension in awkward situations it had gone wrong.

He used to say the stupidest things and made it even worse… like in the bomb train, or at the cemetery in Baskerville. So he kept his mouth shut.

John braced himself on the counter with both hands, his head low.

He spoke instead of the detective.

"Thank you," his voice was hoarse and tired.

Sherlock frowned.

What for?

He just nodded, that was always okay and innocuous.

When his gaze fell onto the items in front of them he noticed that John was taking a different medication and he tried to remember which one was his and which one the other man's. The doctor had also taken a mild painkiller.

"Yours is different?"

"Yeah. Don't mix them up, you won't like the side effects of mine."

"Why?"

"Er, don't make me explain this right now, not in the mood."

"'kay… Rough night, then?" Sherlock very carefully allowed his shoulder to briefly touch John's when he shifted from one leg to the other.

Now it was John's turn to nod silently.

"Shoulder?"

Another nod.

John had send him away because he hadn't wanted him to witness another bad night?

Had wanted to vent alone?

And the same was true for Mary?

Had John felt like he himself had in Hamburg, alone and desperate, sick from his own worries?

Sherlock remembered he had looked similar those days. During the long hours of the trial his thoughts were restless and drifted into dark realms more often than not.

It had been horrible and endless.

It was also when he had first registered that something might be out of the norm in the mind palace. He then retreated to it when he felt control was slipping and he needed a break from the endless lies of the accused and the back and forth of the attorneys.

The silence between him and John settled into something more softly aubergine and Sherlock felt how they both relaxed a bit.

What would do John good?

He had rarely asked himself this before and the entries in his mind's database about this fact were so few he must seem very careless. He turned away from the sparse information and looked at the things John had done to soothe him - people tended to do to others what helped themselves - and found: the heavy warm hot-thing, the doctor had introduced to him some days ago.*

With some initial hesitation if this was the right kind of thing he headed for his room to get it.

A few nights ago he had used it on his own.

The weight was... felt...

Good?

It would be more soothing if it was at least three times as heavy as it was, though.

He had never heard of grain pillows before and therefore googled the concept and it's uses, as well as the pros and cons.

Now he brought it with him to the kitchen, took the plate out of the microwave, replaced it with the pillow and hoped it wouldn't take on the smell of the food.

John was preparing the second portion now and looked at him curiously when he registered the oven was occupied.

"Wait with that a bit, I can't eat that right now, I need some tea first," Sherlock muttered while filling the kettle.

John let the plate sink.

"Yeah, me too… Guess dinner can wait," he placed it back on the counter, "How about you take me through what you found out?"

"Oh," Sherlock just made.

John had actually asked!

Needing a distraction?

"Of course. We observed the house for the first half of the night, it was rather boring."

"And Greg didn't let you smoke in the car."

"No."

They sat down in front of the laptop while the detective started to explain what they had found.

Two minutes later they were interrupted by the kettle and Sherlock returned to the kitchen to prepare the tea.

He brought the warm pillow with him and held it out to John.

"Want that kernel sachet?"

John stared up at him, frowning at first, but then he realised what his former flatmate was holding in his hand and took it.

"Yes, Thank you. That's… good. Good thinking. Ta."

He draped it over his shoulder while Sherlock brought the two mugs.

They discussed everything that had happened during the night in detail and Sherlock asked John twice more if he'd come with him later, which made John quite worried because Sherlock didn't do such things.

About ten in the morning they finally managed to have dinner, then headed towards their beds.

 

**Saturday afternoon**

They slept until the afternoon, when Mycroft  called Sherlock to inform him they'd do a cooperate search operation on the grounds of the storage area, which was under surveillance since the early hours of the morning.

Sherlock was not at all amused about the fact that his brother was more and more involved in the investigation and ranted about it for about half an hour.

 

They were ready and waiting when a big black limousine stopped in front of the flat. Sherlock briefly greeted his brother and then told him they'd be following in a cab.

John just rolled his eyes and said nothing while Sherlock raised a hand.

When the consulting detective saw John's expression, he explained, "I'm not in the mood to have conversation with my nosy brother."

 

A bit later they arrived at the meeting point, a few streets away from the entrance of the storage company.

Lestrade's team was preparing for the mission.

After the necessary greetings they met the manager of the facility, who spoke with an American accent, his name was Decker.

They started to go through the logs and pick out every unit that had been entered during the past week and then they followed the man around who led them to said units.

Mycroft had managed to get a search warrant, but left after organising the whole operation. Two of his agents stayed to help, since he had to do more important government business.

They split up into teams of two, Sherlock and Lestrade, Sally and one of the agents, John and a young constable, and finally Decker with the second agent. Some young constables stayed with the cars.

At first Sherlock had refused to split up with John, but Lestrade and Mycroft had not allowed the two of them to go as a team without an 'official' investigator - for legal reasons.

The area was rather large and making a team of three and render one of the agents useless because no one was supposed to investigate without backup was nonsense, except for Sherlock, who liked the idea of rendering Mycroft's men useless.

When they were all equipped with radios they split up and started the search.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * In case someone want to read this grain-pillow thing again, it's in Chapter 32.
> 
>  
> 
> Constructive criticism welcome. Please make me happy with a comment if you like my story.


	75. Storehouses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Lestrade vanish while searching for the suspect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

 

**Saturday late afternoon**

 

In the first half hour of searching the storage area Sherlock kept constant contact to John, it was almost funny what he asked or reported every other three or four minutes, seemingly just to stay in contact.

Finally, Lestrade threatened to take the radio away from him if he continued to use it like this, but more in a joking way. The DI was glad that the two men appeared to have straightened some things out and that Sherlock was behaving quite nicely to his former flatmate, although not to everybody else. The atmosphere between them had clearly changed for the better.

At first, when they had arrived, Greg had held his breath, they both looked so much worse for wear that he feared it was getting worse between them.

But when they had a quiet minute while Sherlock was arguing with Mycroft out of hearing range the doctor assured that they were making real progress lately.

As the search proceeded it was getting dusky, nothing unusual for mid December, they were lucky is wasn't raining.

When John hadn't heard from Sherlock for fifteen minutes he tried to contact him, Lestrade answered and reported they were finished with the third block and heading to the next in the rear, nothing interesting so far.

Similar reports came in from the other groups.

For the next minutes they kept radio silence and the doctor assumed they were busy - or Greg had taken the radio away from Sherlock - that was until Sally called to ask if they had spoken to Lestrade or Sherlock since neither was answering her calls.

John went to high alert immediately and Sally and the other agent, as well as John and the constable, headed towards the area where the DI and Sherlock were supposed be.

 

After almost ten minutes of searching they had neither managed to re-establish contact nor seen any hint of them. John was getting seriously nervous now.

A few minutes later they heard Sally yell and ran to the next row of units.

She was next to an angular shaped car that was clearly built in the mid-eighties.

It was only the third car they saw in the area up to now and the other two ones had been attended and the drivers were loading or unloading supplies.

This dark-red vehicle seemed abandoned, no open doors, no gaping unit entries and no one to be seen or heard nearby.

John closed his eyes and listened for any noises nearby and Sally understood, shushed the others.

To his surprise John heard a not so small sound from the car and raised his hands to signal the other three to stay silent.

A soft knocking sound followed.

"Shit, someone's in the trunk!" Sally stated the obvious and drew her weapon. "Secure the area, I'll call for someone to bring tools. Whoever put someone in there is probably still around."

She stepped a few metres away, observing their surroundings carefully, as did the other two men, their weapons drawn.

John heard a moan, and it definitely didn't sound like a woman. He stepped to the boot and slowly pressed the lock, which caused the agent to flinch.

"Careful, might be a trap."

"Unlikely with this class of criminal, I mean we're not dealing with Moriarty here," John assured him.

They were all very surprised the boot wasn't locked.

Carefully, John allowed the lid to open a slit and then carefully shone light into the gap.

Another sound and now John was absolutely sure who that voice belonged to.

"Sherlock, is it safe to open the lid?"

"Hmmm," came a moaned affirmation and the doctor opened it all the way.

"Shit!"

Sherlock was in the deep boot, dishevelled, gagged, bound, in an awkward position and surrounded by clutter.

Hastily, John spoke into his radio while he pulled the gag down to Sherlock's chin so the man could speak.

"Sally, boot is open, bring cutters, though. Sherlock's in the trunk."

"Lestrade?"

"Don't know yet. Sherlock, where's Lestrade?"

"'ere," Sherlock's voice was hoarse and he struggled to get up.

For some unknown reason the detective had problems getting up and John grabbed his arm and dragged him upwards, assuming Sherlock meant the DI was somewhere nearby.

"Are you hurt?"

Sherlock shook his head and then one of the agents started to yell about a hundred metres away from them.

"I can handle this, go help him, maybe they found Lestrade or the suspect," John ordered and the constable ran towards the agent.

Sherlock awkwardly stumbled to keep upright and the doctor was quite alarmed about his unusual clumsiness and his glassy eyes.

"Sherlock? Have you been drugged?"

"Not… John!...You need to…" Sherlock tried to get out of the boot backwards, reluctant to stand up.

"Calm down. Are you okay?"

John looked into the other man's eyes, his pupils were dilated and he seemed disoriented, not good.

"Where's Lestrade?"

Sherlock was struggling to get his second foot over the edge of the trunk.

"Help…"

John frowned, his friend had a bleeding laceration somewhere, since the side of his neck was red with blood. He pointed his torch at it to see better in the dim light.

But what he saw in Sherlock's face was far more alarming, it was pure horror.

He reached out and untied the other man's hands that were luckily only bound with a greasy bandanna. Meanwhile he watched Sherlock, nervous about his friend's odd behaviour. He had seen a similar expression on his face in Baskerville, but this was more desperate, more anxious.

Was he having another panic attack?

Why?

Had something happened to the DI?

"Lestrade… he's…" Sherlock panted, "…drugged. Tried to roll off him t' give him space t' breathe… but…"

Sherlock swayed dangerously and almost collapsed back against the car.

Then, with now free hands, he turned around and reached into the large boot, nearly collapsing in the process once more.

"What the hell is happening, Sherlock?"

"Lestrade!"

The other man dived deep into the dark trunk.

"Jesus!"

John finally understood that Lestrade must be still in there. The boot was deeper than it looked.

"Get him out!"

Sherlock gulped and then continued to pant.

"Sally, I need you here, and I need you to send two more men to help me… and an ambulance," John spoke into the radio, clearly in commando mode and he leaned in, too, to  examine the DI.

"No, I need to…" Sherlock tried to drag John away.

Greg's arm was easy to reach and the doctor felt for his pulse, uncovered his face by lifting his limb away. There was more blood and John wondered who was the one bleeding.

"Greg? Can you hear me, mate?... Is he otherwise injured, Sherlock?"

"He was drugged, we need to get him to safety."

"I can see that. Are there more injuries? Where is the blood coming from?"

"Me."

Fearing the DI must be half-dead because Sherlock's tone was so very agitated and panicky, John stared at his friend.

"What did they give him?" the doctor urged.

"Cocktail… I don't know, not sure I mean. Paralysed him… probably…" the detective stammered.

"Hang on!" John grabbed his shoulders. "Concentrate! Was he otherwise injured? Do we need to worry about spinal injuries or something else equally serious?"

For a long moment Sherlock just stared at him and when he said nothing John let go of him, trying to find out more about Greg's condition himself.

"He was… he was fine until he druggedus… cocktail… the victim," Sherlock babbled, leaning heavy against the chrome bumper, "He needs… We need t' help him breathe… he might… stopped breathing… I tried to roll off him, but 'm heavy enough to hurt him… don't know…" The shaken look Sherlock was displaying and the wild expression on his face made John switch into commanding officer mode.

"Alright. Easy, you need to tell me what happened. In detail. Now. So calm down," John instructed, while he carefully took out everything that was in the boot with Greg.

A dirty raincoat, an old first aid kit, some oily fabrics, some shoes and a large bundle of bin liners. He was well aware those were evidence, but first priority right now was to keep Greg alive and safe.

"Why are you afraid he might stop breathing? The cocktail didn't do that before."

"Obviously... different one."

To his surprise, Sherlock sounded weak and leaned into John's space.

"Greg? John is here, he's got you. He'll take care of you."

"You think he can hear you?" John tried to get Sherlock into a conversation while he continued to monitor the DI's breathing and heartbeat, keep Sherlock busy and answering. John could sense something was definitely wrong.

"No. I know he can… He's just paralysed, like all theother victims, he drugged us… I mean I drugged him… As I said… could you actually _try_ to listen!"

"You're making no sense…" John muttered, which was also very alarming. "But first things first."

"First…" Sherlock mumbled, "First…" then his voice suddenly raised with even more distress, but John was busy checking Greg's breathing, which was shallow and not healthy, neither was his pulse, but he seemed not to be in imminent danger.

"Sherlock, what's happening?" he grabbed Sherlock by the arms.

"First…!" Sherlock's eyes widened in what seemed to be almost frantic.

"OH!" It was the typical exclamation of the detective figuring something out or remembering a tiny little but important detail. But the wild look in Sherlock's eyes had not gone away, it was still there, worse even, like a cornered animal.

John knew that look, he had seen it often enough in wounded soldiers, who were so stressed out they were losing the touch with reality.

"Hey?"

Sherlock didn't react to him, his eyes wandered around wildly, he was pale and trembling.

"Look at me," John gently took the other mans chin and moved it into his direction. "What's happening?"

"I… We need to safe him _first_ … Can't let him kill us. We need to… First, we need to _go_. Now. We 've not much time left," Sherlock picked up the first aid kit in such a hurry he almost fell over.

"What? Time?"

Sherlock shoved the doctor's hand away and headed towards the driver's door, when he slit into the seat John finally understood what he was planning.

"Shit, Sherlock!"

"Get the first aid kit, and the coat. Evidence. Close the trunk, he'll be safe in there," Sherlock closed the door, "Get in!" he yelled when John hesitated.

"What? No! We need to wait for the ambulance. He needs medical attention!"

"No. We need to get him out of here!" Sherlock's eyes were wide in panic.

"What? Why?"

"The warehouse will explode. Probably sooner than later!"

"Shit! Shit," John fumbled for his phone with one hand and reached for his radio with the other.

"Bloody hell. Sorry Greg, we need to get you out off here, we'll hurry. Stay calm!" he then addressed the paralysed DI.

As gently as possible John closed the lid and ran towards the passenger side.

"Stop by whoever you see, we need to warn them, too."

John realised they didn't have keys, but it was not a problem, Sherlock was already fumbling with some wires and starting the old vehicle by hot-wiring it.

It only took a few moments and the engine started.

"Good, then, go."

Before John had time to slam his door shut Sherlock accelerated ruggedly, the tires screeched and they were on their way towards the main gate.

It was a wild ride and while John was busy bracing himself and speaking into the radio to warn everybody about the imminent danger he realised Sherlock shouldn't be allowed to drive.

They passed none of the other agents during the tail-spinning ride towards the entrance.

But when they reached the gate the squad cars that had been waiting outside were heading towards them.

It seemed Sally was already organising an evacuation, but when she saw the car heading towards her, she reacted fast and ran back towards the police cars, signalling them to turn around, too.

Although Sherlock's reactions were delayed he slowed down and John yelled orders out of the window. It was a bit of a chaos.

"Bomb, get away!"

"Go! Go now!" Sherlock yelled at two more police men and they also ran back towards their cars.

Then the consulting detective stepped onto the gas pedal and they sped out of the warehouse area.

"Sally, do you know where the others went? One of the agent yelled and they headed to assist him," John spoke into his radio.

"Yes, they are following someone who ran off," Sally answered.

"On foot?"

John winced when Sherlock took a turn with way too much speed.

"One of the cars is following them, but yes," Sally informed them.

The doctor took a moment to look at his friend. Sherlock was soaked in sweat and not looking good, neither was he handling the car very well. He _really_ shouldn't have let him drive.

"Sherlock, where is the bomb?"

"Storage unit, booby trap with... additional time trigger. He's gone... She wasn't here."

"Who?"

"The victim!… Concentrate, John."

"You said he drugged you, too. Are you feeling faint?"

"No."

"Then what's happening? Why are you so… shaky?"

"Can we get to safety before having such a useless conversation?" Sherlock spit.

"Sure."

It took a moment for him to realise Sherlock didn't stop the car when they had left the area.

"Sherlock, where are you going?"

"Home, where else?"

"No! We need to get Greg out of the boot and to the nearest hospital."

"You can treat him at home."

"No! Stop the car!"

"I'll go to the hospital then."

"That's ten minutes, we need to make sure he's safe first."

Sherlock stepped onto the brakes, not too gently and John jumped out of the car, cursing.

He had the trunk open and was trying to manhandle Greg into a sitting position before Sherlock finally managed to exit the driver seat. He swayed and supported himself on the side of the car.

"Think you can radio Sally to get here? I need help getting him out," John asked.

"I can do it."

"Don't be ridiculous, you can barely stand! Now get on the radio."

Moments later John heard him mumble into the small device. The doctor meanwhile had shone his torchlight carefully into Greg's open eyes. The pupils were reacting quite sluggish.

Sherlock returned to them and started to try to assist John lifting him out.

"He needs t'get out o'there immediately. He must be a bit stressed by now and I don't wanto prolong this anylonger than absolutelynecessary," Sherlock's speech was more obviously slurred than before and he also spoke so fast John could barely make out the words.

He frowned.

Before, Sherlock hadn't seemed to care and now _this_?

With practiced ease Sherlock grabbed the DI under the shoulders while he supported his head. John had to agree, better get him out as soon as possible.

"Are you sure you can actually do this? Dropping him could be really bad."

"I am, now move!" Sherlock ordered impatiently.

Gently and slowly they lifted the other man out, who groaned softly.

When they placed him on the ground, flat on his back, Sherlock immediately knelt down next to his head and cradled it carefully in his hands.

"Lestrade? I'm sorry that I'm heavy… Ambulance will be here soon. No need to worry, this will wear off without complications, just stay calm and relax."

The utterance was so very unlike Sherlock that John almost dropped the first aid kit he had just fetched from the backseat.

This was so _not_ normal.

Greg's eyes were still open but he didn't look as if he was really aware, his gaze was stiff.

Then suddenly a loud explosion shook the ground under their feet and John saw the flash of light and then heard glass shattering and sirens going off in the distance.

Out of reflex he hunched down - only to see Sherlock do the same - so they were protectively kneeling over Lestrade's torso and head. Though it was unlikely they'd get hit by anything from this distance both their reflexes had been to protect the man down on the ground.

After a long moment of frozen shock they both lowered their arms, then looked around to locate the explosion.

As soon as Sherlock was sure they were safe and no debris would rain down on them he formed a loose ball from his scarf and placed it under the DI's head, gently lifting it in the process.

The touch clearly signalled: honestly worried and deeply caring. The fact that Sherlock's fingers were shaking made the whole thing look even more bizarre.

John was reminded he needed to take care off them _both_ , when Sherlock's hand started patting Lestrade's cheek.

"Lestrade?"

The doctor watched the rise and fall of Greg's chest and counted his breaths while he reached for his wrist, taking his pulse.

"Let's position him on his side, so he can breathe easier."

"You heard that? Blink if you can understand us," Sherlock suggested in a strained tone, staring into the DI's eyes and waiting for a reply.

"What makes you think he can blink?"

"He did... before… and because I know the composition of the drug."

"What? You said before you don't know. You're making no sense."

"Explaining: later!"

Very slowly Greg's eyes closed and opened again.

"He's fully 'ware. Can hear an' sense everything, just can't move. It must be _very_ scary – we're aware, Lestrade - but panicking'll only make it much worse. So remain calm and we'll take care of everything," he explained to the man on the ground, before taking his shoulder and head in his hands and helping John turn him into the recovery position.

Immediately after that he rounded Greg so that he could look into his eyes again.

He leaned down.

"All good then? You know the routine, blink once f'yes and twice forno."

John was still stunned by Sherlock's behaviour. He seemed about to keel over any minute himself, pale and shaky, but he still he cared for the Detective Inspector in a way John had never thought he was able to care for another human being –

Oh, not quite correct!

He had just not really witnessed it because he _himself_ was the only one who usually was on the receiving end… harmed or in pain and therefore distracted.

But Sherlock _had_ behaved like this when John was hurt, or Mrs Hudson. Sherlock's reaction to her being hurt by the American agents was a very deep insight in his feelings for her.

Then, the sirens could be heard in the distance and a moment later Sally and an ambulance arrived.

"Hey, sit down before you fall over, would you?" John tapped his friend's shoulder.

Sherlock had a strange haunted, wild look on his face, now.

"Greg? He's right, you'll be okay. Relax mate," John rubbed the DI's upper arm.

A moment later a police car came around the corner.

Sally jumped out and ran towards them as soon as it had stopped and bathed them in the bright headlamps.

Sherlock flinched away from the onslaught of painfully bright light and John could swear he heard him wince in distress.

 

 


	76. Saturday evening - The hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of what happened at the storehouses.  
> So brace for some odd acting Sherlock, fluff and angst, too, I fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.
> 
> Long chapter ahead. Thanks to insomnia for that.

 

Sally froze when she saw Sherlock on his knees on the wet pavement, coat dirty and hair dishevelled. The fact that he had a hand resting on Lestrade's head and was looking like a deer in the headlights unsettled her even more.

"What's going on?" she asked, carefully stepping closer.

"They have been drugged, Lestrade needs oxygen and monitoring," John explained to her and the ambulance crew, that was now pouring out of the vehicle.

When the paramedics tried to move Sherlock away from the DI, he almost lost it.

He yelled at them not to touch him and not to do anything without announcing it to the DI. But the paramedics only seemed to understand that there he was very agitated and therefore also part of the emergency, also in need of help, which made the situation just worse.

John had concentrated to brief the emergency doctor about the little he knew, but now he decided he needed to step in before things had a chance to escalate further.

Greg was in the other doctor's hand and he needed to take care of his friend.

"Sherlock, it's all right. Calm down," John stepped in between the paramedics and the detective, "They won't listen to you if you act like a maniac, you know that. And I have to admit I need to know why you are so… tense right now, too."

"I am not tense," Sherlock spat. "They are idiots, and they are _not_ listening and I can't trust them to behave professionally and take care of Graham."

"For the record, the name is Greg, Greg Lestrade," John addressed the medical personnel, "He's a DI with Scotland Yard. He has been drugged with a paralysing substance, as has my friend Sherlock," he gestured towards the consulting detective.

"He's a doctor, listen to him," Sally interrupted her phone call and yelled over at them in a command voice.

"I'm John Watson, MD, here's my license," he pulled it out and handed it to one of the medics that were crowding around Sherlock, "and he is not good with people in his personal space, so back off a bit. He can tell us more about the drug."

It worked, everyone seemed to relax a bit. When Sherlock's shoulders slumped and he took a deeper breath, visibly trying to force himself to calm down, John stepped closer and reached for his shoulder.

"What were you drugged with?"

Instead of trying to explain Sherlock fumbled for his coat pocket and pulled out a rumpled piece of paper full of notes from different pens and directions.

"What's this?"

"The ingredients of the drugs the perpetrator used on the other victims."

John handed the paper to one of the paramedics, who - now also visibly calmer - stepped closer.

"They were probably both given something similar to this," he explained to the frowning man.

"Oh. He's still standing?" the man raised his eyebrows and looked shocked.

"Took an antidote," Sherlock mumbled.

"What the hell, Sherlock?"

"Had it in my pocket, managed to drink it before he injected me."

"I don't understand…" a female medic said.

"You don't need to, just do as I say," Sherlock interrupted her. "The DI is fully aware and needs you to explain to him everything you do, to prevent panic. Agitation might worsen the sideffects of the drug or worsen his situation – in a medical way. Being paralysed and helpless is quite a frightening experience and he needs you to behave accordingly."

This utterance made John's blood run cold, because it sounded as if Sherlock was speaking out of experience and not out of empathy.

"Okay, Sherlock. We will. We're professionals. We handle this sort of stuff every day. And your friend here will also assist us if need arises, so why don't you sit down in the meantime," the doctor who was examining Greg said in an overly soothing voice, only briefly looking up from his patient. He must be trained in de-escalation, though chances where high this would not at all work with one Sherlock Holmes.

"You'll not touch me. Take care of him, he's in need," Sherlock's voice was starting to shake, as well as his hands.

"Er, guys... I'll take care of him. Keep your distance," John was not ready to tell him they were freaking Sherlock out, and the longer this lasted the more sure John was that Sherlock's behaviour was not entirely a drug reaction, maybe not even half of it. He was reluctant to inform them it was suspected PTSD, too, because he was sure Sherlock wouldn't take that well.

John stepped closely to Sherlock, just standing in front of him, to make the detective concentrated on him, though he seemed not able to establish eye contact, his gaze was still glassy and scampering blindly through the area.

"Well? Care to share what's freaking you out?" John said in low voice so no one else could hear.

The other man started to slowly shake his head but then aborted the movement halfway through when John said softly, "Tell me, please."

"Smell… is making me… jittery…"

"Which one?"

Now Sherlock shook his head properly, obviously unable to answer.

"Where do you hurt?"

"No pain."

"Right, you have a bump on the back of your head, it's bleeding. That's probably why the medics think you need help, and I do too, so let's sit you down somewhere."

Still not looking at him, Sherlock shook his head once more. But John just took his arm and slowly dragged him towards the ambulance, the detective didn't fight him.

"Could you give me some sterile wipes or something to clean his wound?" he addressed one of the medics who was just standing by while the others were now strapping Greg to a gurney, explaining every movement to him as suggested.

"Think it's urgent? We can do that in A&E if it isn't, we're ready to leave."

"Yesss," Sherlock hissed without hesitation and climbed into the ambulance - even before they had the change to load Greg into it - and sat down at the seat at the head of the gurney.

When one of the paramedics was about to protest, the emergency doctor addressed him. "It's alright, I'll make do, take my car and I'll meet you there," he entered the large back of the vehicle and helped them fasten the gurney, working around Sherlock.

"I'm making loads of exceptions here, gentleman, don't make me regret this. Dr. Watson, you can sit in the front."

John entered the car while informing Sally briefly about what had happened during the past minutes, she had been busy on the phone or the radio the whole time, reporting and organising things. The other team must be still in pursuit of somebody, but this was not John's problem any longer. He had to take care of his friends and let her do the police work.

Moments later the ambulance sped off.

.

Upon their arrival at the hospital Sherlock had calmed down a bit, but was still biting off every one's head  for not being aware of Greg's needs and entering his space.

Mycroft had called during the ride and Sherlock had handed the phone to John - through the small window in the wall of the vehicle - to deal with it.

Now they were sitting in the centre of one of the large rooms of the emergency area. All the curtains were drawn back because there were no other patients in this room.

While they were waiting for further treatment nurses were rushing in and out, taking readings from Greg and connecting him to the stationary equipment.

Greg's heart monitor spiked and Sherlock once more yelled at the nurse that she needed to tell him what she was doing.

When another orderly entered and started to remove Greg's clothes Sherlock finally lost it, yelled at the man for being stupid and that this was not at all necessary. John had tried to interfere by telling Sherlock to calm down and relax a bit.

Moments later an angry looking doctor, who's nametag said Gonzales, entered.

"Mr Holmes, if you continue to harass my staff I'll have you removed. We're quite aware you're agitated, but you need to let us treat your friend without disturbance. Would you please follow me to another room where a nurse can take care of your wound."

"No!"

"Sherlock!" John said in a warning tone, "Let's go."

He took Sherlock by the arm and gently shoved him towards the door. But the detective immediately turned around, anger in his eyes and stared John right in the eyes for a change.

John raised his hands, "Hang on. Everything's fine. You're not yourself, he is right, you are agitated. Let's go outside for a minute. Maybe you need a cigarette?"

It was against John's idea of what the other man should do at the moment, but  the situation definitely needed an easing of tension.

"Well, your yelling is probably stressing Greg out more than the nurses. He's not as sensible to touch as you are. Come on. Let's get a break."

Sherlock looked down, defeated, then allowed John to guide him towards the large open doors.

Dr Gonzales seemed to realise this was more than just an overreacting patient and eyed them intensely on their way out.

John gave him a nod and an apologetic look.

Instead of following the nurse to another room, the consulting detective headed right towards the main hall and then hurried into the open space of the foyer.

Before he was even outside, he reached into his coat pocket and produced a crumpled box of cigarettes. He put the smoke into his mouth and lit it, still inside, but to John's relief then continued through the automatic doors and to the outside smoking area.

It had started to drizzle and John briefly wondered if forcing Sherlock to take a look at his wound before he stepped into the rain was worth the effort. It had stopped bleeding some time ago and therefore could wait a few moments longer.

Out of the corner of his eyes he saw one of the nurses from A&E had followed them and was watching them from inside the foyer, phone in hand. Luckily, she was in Sherlock's back so he wouldn't see her.

Rain on the wound was probably not the best option, on the other hand in combat or other similar missions such small wounds were not treated until the action was way over and all the serious injuries were treated.

The contrast of how medical issues were treated in 'civil life' sometimes seemed like overreacting to John. But the _not military_ hospital staff would only shake their heads about the duo's definition of 'wounds that need treatment soon.' On the other hand John was glad about it and that he had backup should something go wrong.

First on John's current agenda was to take care of Sherlock's mental state and find out how much of the drug he had been given and what the hell he had taken to prevent being paralysed.

He spotted a bench nearby and guided Sherlock towards it.

"Sherlock, what did he give you?"

"Drug cocktail."

"What makes you think it is the same he gave the other victims?"

"Nothing, but the antidote worked."

"Which antidote?"

"The one I spend two weeks to make… Really, John? You didn't listen to anything I told you about the drug, did you?"

"Sorry, I tried. But I thought it was a waste of time to figure out what it was exactly."

"Obviously not, saved our lives."

"Probably did."

"Why are you so worked up? Side effect? Or the smell you mentioned earlier?" the doctor gently probed.

"Put in some stimulant to counter effect the lethargy the drug causes."

"Shit! What exactly _did_ you put in there?"

Sherlock pulled another crumpled paper from his coat and handed it over, on it was a quite accurate receipt for the antidote.

"Did you give any of this to Greg?"

"No time. Pure luck I got the chance to drink it," Sherlock inhaled, "Didn't even knew if it would work fast enough taken orally, was supposed to go into a vein. Also… wouldn't have risked to give him untested drugs of my own creation."

John bit his lips, trying not to rip his head off for the stunt. Sherlock was right, they'd probably be dead if he hadn't managed to make himself be heard. Until John's team or Sally  would've had the idea to search the vehicle the storage might have exploded already and they'd all be casualties by now.

"I need you to promise me something."

Sherlock just stared at the ground.

"I need you to practice a certain degree of self preservation. On a level a bit higher than you did before. That means to do nothing that has a high chance of getting hurt or killed. No drugs, no deliberate damage of your body. No using of untested drugs that might kill you. You understand? If you can't do your best to try to keep yourself alive, I can't do this. Are you willing to take care of protecting yourself from harm?"

"I already got that last time you told me… day before yesterday," Sherlock grumbled. "But my work includes dangerous…"

"Not what I meant! I meant reasonable self preservation."

"I'm not trying to kill myself."

"Not actively, no. But there is a passive way, which I was referring to."

Sherlock nodded with a battered expression on his face.

"I need you to say it."

"I will practise self preservation, John."

John winced about the unnerved tone, but it was a start and better than nothing.

"You'll inform me of your plans, no leaving me out and just doing it. You could have told me you were carrying this around, we could have had it tested."

"Oh please, this would have taken months. You know how long it takes to get approval to drugs for human use.

"Seriously? What about your brother? I think with a matter like this Mycroft would be handy. He'd help with something like this... No leaving me out, agreed?"

"That will slow us down to a degree where detective work can't function, at all."

"I don't mean like every tiny course of action, I mean the important ones. We were lucky with this one -"

"And how am I supposed to know what you deem important and what not?"

"Everything that includes danger to our lives. Plans how to proceed with investigations. Telling me you are planning a break in, stuff like that."

"Which means not working at all, that's not the solution, won't work. And if I hadn't taken it…"

"Yes, I know. But we don't know yet what was in that bloody cocktail and what lingering effects there might be, and you don't know what might be the side effects of the cocktail _you_ made," John didn't know what else to say for a long moment.

Then he added, "Right, OK. Let's not argue. There are more important things to do right now. I  need you to come in with me, let them draw blood, let me take care of your head and then we'll see. This would be the right course for self preservation for the moment. So grasp the nettle and get it over with. Besides, _let_ them do their work. Stop insulting them might be the way to actually stay with Greg - if that's what you want. I could argue that in his state he needs familiar faces around."

"Point made," Sherlock emphasised the consonants as he did when unnerved and flipped the butt into a nearby ashtray. With a grumpy expression he headed back inside.

.

Greg's jacket and shirt had been removed, his torso was bare and he was only wearing his trousers and socks now. He had an oxygen mask over his face and his chest was full of cardiac monitor pads and other electrodes.

John saw Sherlock tense immediately once he saw the DI in this vulnerable state and connected to a row of beeping medical instruments.

Greg turned tired eyes in their direction and Sherlock stepped close to the bed.

"I'm not sure you're actually better here. It would've been preferable to bring you to Baker Street and let you sleep it off there. But John didn't share that approach."

Greg's mouth twitched a tiny bit and Sherlock actually grinned down at him.

"I see your ability to move is improving. Good. Why the hell didn't they give you a blanket, it's cold!" Sherlock complained.

"Sit down," John gestured towards the adjacent gurney, then, "Greg, you want a blanket?"

When the DI blinked once, John addressed the nurse who had just entered.

She nodded and pointed to the back of Sherlock's head, "I'll suture that in a minute."

"No, you won't," Sherlock hissed without turning around to look at her. He had sat down but was staring at Lestrade's face.

The DI grunted in disapproval.

"John will do it, or no one will."

The nurse asked John to see his license again and then allowed him to do it, not ready for any more tantrums. The paramedics must have informed her about what had happened earlier, or maybe Mycroft had called ahead?

She returned with a tablet with all the necessary equipment and a student nurse in tow who was carrying a blanket. After covering Greg's lower half they left John to it, although she or other staff looked around the corner every two or three minutes to make sure everyone was okay.

Greg just watched them out of the corner of his eyes. When John had just soaked some wipes with iodine solution Sherlock suddenly stood up again.

John closed his eyes and shook his head, unnerved about another interruption but trying to be patient.

"You'll get a cramp in your eyes that way. You want your head to be turned a bit into this direction so you can see what's going on?" Sherlock addressed the paralysed DI.

John raised his eyebrows.

Greg nodded with his eyelids and Sherlock - very careful not to disturb the tubes and wires and not to cause him any discomfort - slowly turned the other man's head with both hands.

"Comfy?"

Another blink.

Sherlock hopped back onto the gurney without looking at John, who was once more surprised about the TLC Sherlock was exhibiting, but quite aware Sherlock would do the same for him. Sherlock had acted in similar ways to care for him on the few occasions he was injured, like when he had been suffering from multiple scorpion bites.* Back then the fact that Sherlock _wanted_ to learn how to care for another human being had actually taken him by surprise since it was the first time he had intimately made contact with this side of the detective. Sherlock often seemed unskilful and inexperienced with it, but he was caring deeply for his friends, most of the time he just didn't know how to do it properly.

John had never found out how Sherlock and the DI became friends and what had happened between them before he himself had met Sherlock, but at this moment he decided he definitely would ask later.

When John didn't continue his work Sherlock turned around and looked at him, the doctor's face must have shown his surprise and his thoughts because Sherlock became insecure immediately.

"Not good? I asked before I touched him," he defended his actions.

"No, Sherlock, it's fine. It was nice, actually. It's fine. Now let me take care of this laceration and tell me how it happened."

After Sherlock had turned back to facing Greg John finally had access to the back of his head and started to clean the wound.

"Let's wait until Lestrade is able to talk and Sally is here to write it down."

Since it was not like Sherlock to hold back how he had saved the day with a self-made antidote John wondered why he was so reluctant to talk.

Then suddenly Sherlock first tensed and then went stone silent, it made John lean around him to look at his face, he saw the detective had paled and small beads of sweat were forming on his forehead.

"What's happening?" John asked in a low and gentle tone.

But Sherlock did not react.

The doctor then stood up again to stand in front of his sitting friend and look into his face.

Sherlock was once more staring blindly into space, breathing shallowly through his mouth.

"Sherlock? Hey?"

No reaction.

With raising concern John wondered if this might be an episode of dissociation or if he was having a flashback.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?"

But he just stared into space.

Raising his voice would alarm the staff and the doctor wanted to prevent that, because everything might go downhill fast.

The beeping of Greg's heart monitor speed up.

"It's fine Greg. He'll be back in a few moments. It's gonna be okay," he tried to show a confidence he didn't really feel, because this was causing him a lot of apprehension.

The last times he had zoned out like this Sherlock had not taken it easy. The last thing he needed was to have the staff interfere and worsen the aftermath even more.

They'd do the opposite Sherlock needed if he freaked out, so John's primary goal was to get this under control as fast as possible without anyone noticing. Luckily the detective was currently sitting with his back to the door.

"Sherlock, come back to me," John said.

"Hey, come on, don't do this," he started to carefully touch Sherlock's shoulder and - when nothing bad happened - slowly but with a fair amount of pressure rubbed up and down his upper arm, to give him some external stimuli.

He sighed when Sherlock finally blinked.

"It's  all right. Take a deep breath."

The detective blinked once more and his gaze moved up to John's face, it changed from disoriented to disgusted within three seconds.

"Don't!"

"What's happening?"

"Nothing! Go on and fix the wound," Sherlock hissed and looked him directly in the eyes, the doctor knew that warning look, it was the same he had been given on their first case when Lestrade had faked a drugs bust.

"How much does it hurt?" John kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock, trying to figure out what was going on.

"It doesn't. So feel free to go on any time soon."

"What is it then?"

Sherlock ignored him and looked away.

After a brief moment of hesitation John rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

For a few seconds Sherlock stopped breathing but then his muscles relaxed under John's touch. The touch did what words couldn't and Sherlock once more minutely leaned into it.

"Not now and not here," he then said, it was almost a whisper. To John's horror he sounded as if barely hanging on.

This meant the problem was definitely about a trigger or something similar, John had not discussed this with his friend before but the problem had to be addressed sooner or later.

"Yeah, sure," he agreed and focussed on the emergency trolley, fetching a battery powered pulse-ox and a kit for drawing blood.

Not bothering with asking, he clipped the thing onto Sherlock's finger and studied the readings for a moment before he returned to cleaning the wound. Sherlock just dramatically rolled his eyes but it did little to hide his distress from John's practised eyes.

By the time the wound was sutured, Lestrade was able to move his fingers a bit.

John drew blood and signed several forms that admitted them both - the usual paperwork - he didn't bother informing his former flatmate about it.

When everything was finished almost three hours after their arrival, Sherlock had entertained Greg by telling him about a stupid case from years ago. He had not shown any more symptoms of distress or side effects of the drug. By then Greg was able to move his head and rudimentary use his speech, though it was hard to understand him due to the slurring of the words.

The idea to keep the DI's mind occupied like this made John smile, Sherlock's care was heart-warming, as were the occasions John remembered when he had been the recipient during a flashback he had many years ago.

Another ten minutes later Sally arrived with Mycroft in her tow.

"What happened?" Mycroft asked without introductions.

"Get your dictation machine, I will not explain this twice," Sherlock addressed Sally, who headed back to her car to get the equipment.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This refers to my story 'Handle with care' in case someone wants to check it out.
> 
> I just wanted to point out this drug is of course completely fictional, there are drugs that can paralyse, but not like this - as far as I know. I'm no doctor, have no medical degree and my knowledge is what I learned during internships, from medical personnel in my surroundings or as a patient.   
> My knowledge about PTSD is only what I learned due to the fact that I have to live with it, for over fifteen years now. I read books after I was diagnosed (only a few years ago) but most of this story is the result of trying to cope without help (before the diagnosis).


	77. The report

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally reports what has happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

 

A few minutes later they were ready, the recorder on the bedside table and everyone who wasn't in a bed sitting somewhere. John the only one not using a chair, instead he was leaned against Sherlock's bed between it and the DI's.

Sherlock was sitting with the bed's back raised, his knees drawn up, clothed in his complete dress suit minus the shoes. But he had yet refused to lean back and relax. It had been quite a bit of work to get him into the bed at all.

"We found a unit with a car parked in front, went into the hall, knocked at the door. No response. The door opened when we tried to knob. When we entered, it was all dark inside, lights didn't work, used the torches," Sherlock reported the events of the late afternoon in a very abridged staccato voice.

"Lestrade went in first, had his gun out. The space was quite large. The view was blocked by high stakes of euro-pallets, up to the ceiling. They formed a wall – or a bit of a maze - we had to go around. I had barely passed it when something knocked me down from behind," Sherlock continued.

"I caught a glimpse of what I thought was a drug lab in the rear, but it was too dark to see any details. He ambushed us from behind, was waiting in the dark."

.

Sherlock blinked, the first thing that entered his consciousness was that something hurt.

But the pain wasn't that bad, far worse was the ugly and a brown beige muddy taste of distress in his mouth. It was a struggle to understand what was happening.

There was movement nearby… and voices.

Steps were coming closer and someone yelled an order.

So, not home nor somewhere safe, this was definitely sub optimal.

His hands were picked up and something was wrapped around his wrists, not in a brutal fashion but in a caring way.

Sherlock's muddled mind started to make him suck in air in distress.

Something _bad_ was happening.

Bound hands meant _loss of control_ and that was a worst case scenario.

All kinds of alarms that had saved his life countless times - especially while out there fighting Moriarty's web - kicked in. For a moment, he was sure he was still there, dismantling said web, until he heard _Lestrade_ speaking. The DI's voice immediately dragged him back into reality.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry."

He suppressed the dizziness and the pain and opened his eyes.

The space he was dimly lit, but it brought back the memory of his current location.

Euro-pallets and what looked like a chemistry lab…

Right.

The case.

Paralysed victims.

Perpetrator…?

Something in his mind kicked into gear before he was even fully aware.

To his annoyance his heartbeat gained quite an unnerving intensity and he breathed fast without intending to.

The most important tools - his hands - were bound, only barely able to function. Though not bound so tight it'd hurt or kept him completely from moving his wrists.

"Switch on the lights. They'll work now," someone ordered in the distance.

Was _he_ mean to get up to do it?

Steps moved away. 

He was lying on the ground, not really able to move anyway.

Something distracting was polluting the air.

The lights suddenly pinched his eyes and the turquoise pain it caused brought nausea; he bit his tongue to keep it at bay.

It took time to get some orientation back, he was distracted by voices, movement and pain.

When he struggled to sit up, his gaze caught the drug lab in the back once more.

Some hospital equipment was present, too.

It took a moment before he realised that on a low table near to him were several jet injectors, one looked like a military vaccination gun from the eighties and was connected via pressure hose to a large cylinder.

Sherlock had managed to lift himself into a half sitting position but when he saw it he let himself fall back down to the ground, turning away from the voices.

He felt something rise, something he needed to keep in check. He struggled, without knowing why.

If this was their perpetrator - and he had no doubt it was - it was unlikely there were _no_ paralysing drugs in those injectors.

He needed to act.

Now!

Fast!

Think!

He was glad his mind immediately provided him with the location of the vial of antidote he had made.

Sure, it was definitely not safe to use it, but getting paralysed was more 'not safe' than his home-made remedy.

Protected from sight by his posture and his coat, he fumbled the vial out of his coat pocket and downed it's content. It was not supposed to be swallowed, but that was his only option right now.

Not a moment too soon, because seconds later he was thrust around by a leather boot. He barely managed to shove the empty vial under his thigh.

The man who was standing over him only distantly resembled the person he and John  had seen in the staircase, but after three seconds Sherlock was sure it was the same man.

He had obviously undergone severe changes to his appearance, but his posture and outline remained the same.

The perpetrator looked much older now, a moustache added to that, and his hair was dyed, he wore glasses and a suit. Quite a changeover, not resembling the hoddied kid with the boyish face they had seen.

Lestrade was tied to a chair three metres away, but Sherlock had not the time to inspect the situation further, because something cold and metal was suddenly pressed to his temple.

"Get up!"

He struggled to get into a sitting position as fast as he could because the tone said 'or I will shoot you.'

Then something entered his mind that added to the doom of a worst case scenario: a smell.

He gagged, before he had time to understand what was happening panic flooded his every pore and he moaned in distress.

"Get up, now! Or I'll make sure you _never_ will," someone yelled in the distance, and Sherlock's autopilot made him comply, he staggered to his feet.

"Pick up the injector at the right, the white one."

Sherlock briefly remembered he had seen this coming.

Slowly, to give the rest of the teams time to find them, he moved over, looking down on the needle-less apparatuses.

He wondered if he'd be able to manipulate it in a way to reduce the dose injected significantly or at all, but he had never seen this model and when he picked it up, the man stepped closer.

"No false moves!" he warned, but kept a safe distance.

"Inject him!… Just press it to his skin and press the trigger. Now!" he ordered.

Sherlock wondered if he'd be able to trigger it before it touched the skin of the DI.

"If you don't switch him off I'll shoot him. Bare his skin!"

So, no chance to fake it.

Sherlock ripped off Lestrade's shirt, a bit not good, this must be awkward for the other man.

"Sorry," he mumbled to the DI, before pressing the orifice to a part where it should work slower than it could somewhere else, but it was a minute difference.

The noise the thing made, caused them both to flinch, a soft popping sound.

"Good, now lie down on your stomach," the criminal ordered.

Sherlock hesitated, panic still lingering, making his world hazy.

"Get down!" the man screamed.

Slowly, Sherlock moved downward, his heart pounding.

Lestrade's breathing was way to fast… and loud, it was all he could hear, except the rushing noise in his ears.

He had barely made contact with the smooth surface when something was shoved into his mouth, it made breathing far more complicated all of a sudden.

Before he had time to adjust he felt the injector was pressed to the back of his neck, it hissed ominously and the load was pressed into Sherlock's body.

Sherlock felt panic take over, the ugly smell in his nostrils invaded his mind and floored everything else.

Not able to ship around it he was overwhelmed by it and it was all he could process.

He lost himself in the intense sensations.

 

When he struggled back to the surface he didn't know how long he had been out of order.

He hurt.

Every fibre of his body was already kind of hypersensitive before this and now there was touch, that made him want to scream in agony, but he couldn't.

The drug was doing it's work, he was not able to move.

Unable to stop it the panic rose to a level that forced him to retreat into his mind once more. It must have been several more minutes he was out because he came back while he was manhandled onto an ancient looking metal table on casters. He was on his stomach and his head and legs were hanging over the edges.

When the movement started and he was rolled down the room his gaze fell onto the lab.

Something had changed, large gas cylinders were now lined up in a row, several tubes connected them to the equipment on the tables.

Perpetrator planned an explosion, obviously.

Suddenly it was dark and it smelled like rain, he must've been rolled outside.

Why?

If the man planned to blow up the lab, why was he wheeled away? This would be the perfect way to get rid of his body.

Sherlock's heart was pounding so hard he feared he'd black out again, but he was sure that if he couldn't prevent that from happened he'd be dead.  
Where was Lestrade?

He was dragged into a smaller space and the hard impact made him gasp. The smell changed from alarmingly bloody to oily and then to… aftershave.

It took a long moment until he got his bearings back, then he realised that the gentle movement of air, that made his hairs stay on edge and his neck vibrate in disgust, must be Lestrade's breath.

He was lying on top of the DI.

His weight would be enough to seriously hurt the other man, especially if his breathing was impaired.

Panic returned full force, made his own breath freeze in his chest.

He reminded himself that panicking was the most stupid thing he could possibly do in this situation and that he needed to concentrate to save both their lifes.

The frustration when he realised he couldn't kill the anxiety and that _this_ might be actually what _would_ get them killed made him gag, he felt horrible.

Not only his body was paralysed by a drug, his mind was paralysing itself by stupid emotions.

Then his surroundings exploded with loud sound and movement.

They were in a boot and someone had just shut the lid with a loud bang!

Think!

His breathing staggered to a halt and he bit his lip to make the pain bring him back, out of the panic-zone.

He bit on his tongue next, hard!

Think!

He _could_ bite his tongue!

Which meant he was not _totally_ paralysed.

He needed to _think_!

He listened instead, afraid to hear what was going on.

No one could be heard nearby.

He tried to move, but his fingers only twitched.

How much time did they have until the storage unit would explode?

Some minutes, he guessed, until the man had time to run away by foot.

Not dumb, that idea.

A driving car _would_ draw attention. Getting out somewhere in the back by foot probably wouldn't.

Sherlock frantically tried to free his hands, wincing inwardly when he remembered that every movement he was glad he could do was probably hurting Lestrade further.

Lestrade was probably feeling as panicked and bad as he was.

He felt the urge to speak, to say something, get in contact with the man, but the gag hindered him.

A short time later he heard voices.

Was it the villain with an accomplice?

To his relief he recognised John's voice.

He needed to save John and Lestrade!

John would be caught in the blast, too!

Think!

Ruthlessly he started to move what he could, which was his bound hands.

It was quite an effort to bump them into the lid from the inside, the lid was further away than he had thought, but luckily the control over his body was returning fast.

When he heard that John had understood that someone was trapped inside, he went limp from relief for a moment, but then remembered that he was hurting the man under him and tried to move off Greg's torso and head.

He listened, the other man's breathing had become very shallow and he could smell both their sweat as well as the obnoxious odour of blood.

No, not smelling that!

He knew if he let the smell enter his reality the panic would skyrocket again.

Moments later someone opened the lid and he almost sobbed with relief, then opened his eyes and in the dim light stared up into John's face.

 

Of course what he reported to Sally, his brother and John was the abridged, played down version of the events, that totally lacked any information about how he had felt.

The fact that he was able to report it this straight forward made him sigh in relief inwardly. So many memories nowadays where not easy to bring back up.

He was still sure that there were many events he had experienced during his hiatus he wouldn't be able to even tell John without showing his mental state, his distress. He had expected this to cause him more stress but he somehow managed to separate himself from it when he told them what had happened. The fact that John's living and breathing body was only fifteen centimetres away from his might have added to that.

Thirty minutes after Sally and Mycroft had arrived he finished his report with the information that John had freed them and that they had escaped the explosion with the hot wired car.

John continued from there and Sherlock was glad that he did.

The older Holmes was listening with his usual disinterested expression, he gladly managed not to comment in a way that would have unnerved Sherlock. But there was something in his countenance that looked a bit suspicious at several points of his brother's account. 

When Sally asked to see Lestrade's doctor, Mycroft followed her out, giving John an asking glace that Sherlock didn't miss.

John stood up.

"Sherlock, can you look after Greg for a moment, I'd like to hear what the doctor has to say, too."

Sherlock wondered why they didn't do it in here, but assumed they didn't want to discuss it in front of a still partially paralysed Lestrade.

The DI had been questioned by Donovan, too.

Although he was now basically able to speak, it was visibly difficult and his speech was slurred. Sally had asked him yes or no questions and if Sherlock's report was accurate, missing something or if he wanted to comment on it.

Lestrade had stated he'd write a report about what happened when the man had knocked Sherlock out and he was forced to truss him up, but otherwise completely agreed with Sherlock.

Unsure if he really was ready to do so Sherlock stood up, considering to follow the others out to hear what the doctor had to say, but Greg's voice made him stop.

"S'ay, 'lease."

"You're fine."

Lestrade huffed, "Bu' I wan' company."

"I'm bad company, you should know that by now."

"Saved me. A'so I prefer you t' lot of o'her people. You know tha'."

"Are you getting sentimental? Is the drug affecting your emotional state?"

"No, bu' being this vulnerable an' almost being killed is, I suppose."

"Does that mean I have to undergo anther hug as soon as you are able to stand?"

"Proba'ly."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "If you feel you must, I'll endure that."

Lestrade chuckled, but Sherlock saw the raw emotions in his eyes, not knowing what they were, but they were clearly present and as close to the surface as his own. He suddenly realised they were both fighting to keep it in check, whatever _it_ was.

He gulped, Lestrade's expression was unsettling.

"Thanks," the DI croaked, his voice sounded choked.

Sherlock didn't know what to say, what to do.

Was he supposed to comfort him?

Probably.

He didn't trust his voice, so he just nodded.

What would comfort himself right now? Couldn't be that far from what Lestrade needed.

Home, Fire, Violin.

"Come to Baker Street with us later," he suggested.

"Nice try, I doubt they'll let me go anytime soon," Greg's speech was improving fast, though it was still very slow and needed obviously a great amount of concentration.

"Don't be ridiculous, in about two hours you'll be perfectly normal, even before that I will leave, you are free to come. I doubt John would let you go home alone and since you need a bit more monitoring, you can as well join us."

Lestrade narrowed his eyes at first, then gave him a weary smile.

"Okay. You have some cold beer?"

"No alcohol within the next twenty four hours, until the drug cocktail is completely out of your system."

"Shit. Since when do you…?"

"Since now."

"Right," Lestrade winced when he tried to shift a bit.

"I'm sorry. You'll… I mean… I presumably gave you several bruises… Are… are your ribs damaged?" Sherlock suddenly realised he was responsible for the pain the DI must be experiencing.

"Listen, I'm a bit sore, yeah, but I prefer you to _rumple_ me than anyone else," Greg tried to joke.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…" Sherlock felt something unsettling rising.

It was his fault! He had injured the man.

Why was this feeling so bad? He had injured other people before in order to save his life, or John's, or…

"Hey, it's okay. You're not responsible for this, the perpetrator is. I just had the bad luck to be on the bottom. Next time you're free to let me be on top."

Was he joking?

What was he supposed to respond to that?

He was a lousy friend, and he knew it… and had lousy bedside manners.

"You look like shit, mate. Sit down," Lestrade started to roll onto his side with a grunt. "Well, it's great to be able to move again. Never thought this could feel so good."

He stopped halfway through the movement though, resting on his elbow, his face contorting in pain.

"This does _not_ actually look as if it feels good, quite the opposite. Ribs?" Sherlock asked and stepped closer.

Lestrade nodded, still tensed up and not moving.

Sherlock reached for the wires and made sure they wouldn't get in the way, then supported Lestrade by shoving his arm under his side and taking the weight. He helped him reposition on his side.

Their eyes met when Sherlock was about to let go slowly, and they just stared at each other for a long moment.

"Sorry, I should have asked permission," Sherlock hastily removed his arm.

"No, Sherlock it's okay. You're a friend, you are allowed to touch me… to help me. I'd tell you if I didn't want to be touched. Eh,... friends touch each other, that's normal. You were careful. Why is this a problem? I'm in need of help, I trust you."

"I…

"Not quite sure, but this hasn't been problem of that magnitude before, hasn't it?"

"Touch was always a problem."

"I know, but something has changed," the DI explained, then suddenly he reached for Sherlock's forearm and gripped it.

The intense firm grip surprised Sherlock and he flinched.

"Well, ehm,... I trust you... and you need to trust us. You need help, too. Let us help, this is what friends do… Let us in… You need to share what's troubling you so we can protect you."

Sherlock frowned.

Had he just missed an entire conversation? When had they changed topics? Why was this suddenly about him?

"Look at me," Lestrade urged.

But he couldn't.

When an awkward silence settled into the room the DI held onto the other man.

"I'd like to come to Baker Street with you. I need to have some company after this, I suppose. Thanks for the offer."

Sherlock stared down at the hand that was wrapped around his forearm, the impulse to rip free was there, but also was the sense of being… encased.

Which was… feeling stable.

Lestrade let go and a moment later Sally's voice could be heard.

"Are you okay, there?" her heels clicked when she entered and stepped nearer to the bed. "The sociopath getting on your nerves?"

"Christ, Donovan, I swear if you _ever_ call him a sociopath again I'll reduce you in rank and send you to a month of psychology lectures about what a _real_ sociopath is like," the DI's hard tone surprised them all.

"Sorry, boss," he meekly said. "The doc said you can go as soon as you're steady on your feet. Want me to bring you home?"

"No, thanks. Go to the Yard, write a report... Dismissed," his tone was not entirely normal again now and Sally left immediately.

John passed by her when he stepped in.

"What just happened?"

"Nothing, everything is great," Lestrade said, a bit sarcastic. "Help me sit up, Sherlock."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like Lestrade and I sometimes miss that there are so few good Sherlock-Lestrade-John-friendship interactions-, or H/C- scenes here.   
> So I decided this story needs some.  
>  I really hope Season 4 will show a bit more of Sherlock's relationship to Lestrade.   
> I loved how Lestrade reacted in 3x02 when Sherlock asked him for help for the speech, I mean it was awkward in a bad way, but the friendship and care it showed was hilarious.   
> I really liked Greg in Season 3, whenever he showed up it was great friendship-stuff.   
> Please review.


	78. Sunday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at 221b with Greg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

**Sunday, early hours of the morning**

Four hours later they were in the living room of 221b; Lestrade on the sofa, Sherlock in his armchair.

At first John hadn't been too happy about the fact that they were released this soon on one and, but on the other he was sure this was better for Sherlock, who had started the mental equivalent of running up the walls and was getting more stressed an irritated by the minute.

When finally Dr Gonzales had begun asking the wrong kind of questions about his behaviour and tenseness and why he was carrying self-made drugs around, John realised it was the moment to leave.

Now the former army surgeon was keeping a close eye on his friends, providing tea, blankets and whatever was needed as a cover for monitoring them properly, Sherlock to be precise.

The DI was happy to answer questions and now and then to report how he was doing.

John had tried to make Sherlock lay down, too, but the other man refused vehemently.

Now they were all just trying to settled down and find something to do to get through the night.

Greg cursed when they finished a quick meal.

"I need to write down what happened when Sherlock was knocked out, before I forget the details. Can I borrow a laptop?" Lestrade asked Sherlock, who was sorting through the pictures that were taken after the store unit explosion. Mycroft had provided them.

Sherlock copied the pictures and removed a flash drive from the running computer, unplugged it and handed the obviously quite new device over to Lestrade, then he hogged  John's laptop.

.

"Okay, hands up!" Lestrade yelled, Sherlock was down - probably unconscious - on the ground, and the man that had jumped him from the dark behind them was just straightening up again.

Where were the other teams?

With the hand turned away from the perpetrator he reached for his radio and pressed the button in the official SOS pattern, hoping it would get out.

Before he could do anything the villain had stepped closer to Sherlock and pressed a gun against his temple, it was equipped with a bulky silencer that was probably home made.

"You better stop right were you are mister, or I'll blow this one's brain out," the man said, steel in his voice.

Lestrade stopped, grasping the situation within a second. For a brief moment he listened for backup and another three seconds later lifted his hands into the air.

"Alright, don't shoot him, please," Lestrade begged in a deliberately insecure sounding voice.

"Throw away the weapon."

Greg was holding it up high in the air. When he didn't react immediately the man yelled.

"Throw away the weapon, now!"

Lestrade tried to look shaken, put the safety catch back into place and let go of the gun, it clattered to the ground.

"Who are you?"

When Lestrade didn't answer he yelled, "Come into the light."

Carefully, Lestrade stepped closer, hoping to give the others more time to find them and cosy the assailant along.

"Who are you?" the man asked again "Answer me or I _will_ shoot him!"

To prove he was not joking he pointed the gun towards the area between Sherlock's feet and pressed the trigger.

Greg flinched when the suppressed shot went into the concrete floor only twenty centimetres away from the unconscious man's feet, sending sharp flakes of stone flying.

"Is that one of your amateur detective friends?" the man asked the unresponsive Sherlock as if he was a reliable source.

Lestrade had thought that their perpetrator must be quite clever doing all that stuff and staging all the scenes, maybe he was, but his language made him appear kind of dull. Probably that was what made his victims think he was harmless; he made them feel superior and used it to his advantage.

Greg reminded himself to not be lulled into a false sense of security. Anyway, if the man underestimated him it would be of advantage, the guy seemed a bit crazy and unpredictable. He was dressed as if he was going out, dress suit and all. It was a bit ridiculous and definitely not appropriate clothing for the weather, without a coat at least.

"Don't pretend to be out!" the man kicked Sherlock's behind but there was no response.

"Have you alarmed the police?" the man's tone was now suddenly calm, cold and calculating.

"Yes," Lestrade stated.

"I don't believe you! You're just trying to make me panic and do something stupid," the man nodded towards Lestrade and stepped back, "I'll let you both live if you take my _medicine_."

"What for?"

"I'll get away and you'll have a _lovely_ time," the man stepped back further and gestured Lestrade to follow him, "Come 'ere."

"Why should I believe you?"

When Greg passed the figure on the ground he saw well hidden movements, Sherlock was on his side, with his back to the perpetrator and fumbling with something with his free hand.

"I can blow your brains out immediately if you'd prefer that," the man offered, his voice totally in control and not a hint of nervousness in it. Lestrade got more and more the impression he was an excellent actor, and able to display perfectly what he thought would serve his purpose.

Lestrade understood and the man held out some fabric, "Cuff him."

Greg did, though he tried to make the knot look tight when it was in fact not.

"Sit on the chair," the villain ordered, pointing towards a moth eaten office chair a few metres away.

.

While the DI was typing, Sherlock started to prepare the fireplace. What Greg didn't expect was that Sherlock carried over a ten kilogram gas cylinder attached to a large oddly shaped Bunsen burner and lit the wood with it. Lestrade had never seen him do this and sat there downright laughing for while. The open fire didn't only warm his body but also his soul.

Some time later, since they were all wound up and not ready to think of sleeping, they watched the news, drank tea, and had nonsense dialogues about commercials.

When Sherlock unpacked his violin, Lestrade didn't even care what was happening around him as long as it wasn't emptiness or silence.

He was tired and exhausted, but still not ready to try to sleep, the memory of not being able to move was still lingering in his consciousness and he feared he would be haunted by intense nightmares.

 

John called Mary and vanished for almost half an hour to speak to her. Sherlock felt the need to play his violin.

It was the middle of the night, but he didn't care. He installed the mute and played things that he knew would calm his thoughts.

Although his fingers were still unfit, his playing was getting better. He needed more practise and this was the first time he felt he wanted to play and needed the sensation of the fragile instrument vibrating under the strokes of the bow.

 

When Lestrade later decided he needed to lie down Sherlock offered his bed, stating he'd not sleep anyway, he was way too irritated about the day to even think of sleep.

Greg refused although Sherlock could see clearly that he felt like lead and wanted nothing more than sleep. Sherlock himself felt tired to the bone but the DI couldn't even focus on the TV.

Some time later Greg's eyes just closed and he drifted off. Sherlock decided him playing had worked as intended and that it was now the time to take another look at the evidence.

 

Half an hour later John stood up and tipped the DI's shoulder.

"Come on, you should take his offer and use his bed. He won't sleep so you can as well get comfortable there."

"Hm, hijacking his bed then. Never thought I'd actually do it," Greg mumbled.

John laughed and it sounded genuine, "Me neither."

Greg was still a bit uncoordinated and grateful for John's help.

They shuffled into Sherlock's bedroom, who completely ignored them, staring at evidence pictures.

Slowly, Greg worked his shoes off, he felt he needed to talk to John about Sherlock in private.

"Look, he was really distressed before," Greg started, "I mean I was, too, but I have never seen him zone out like this before. It was unsettling to see him so shaken."

"What do you think caused it?" John softly asked while he felt once more for the DI's pulse.

"Not quite sure... He seemed to be freaking out already when he regained consciousness on the floor. You know, breathing hard, squeezing his eyes as if to clear them, jerky movements and so on. I had a hard time fighting my own panic in the boot, but he regained control over his body very fast but nevertheless was kind of standing beside himself, not his usual calm and unfazed-no-matter-what self. If I didn't know better I'd say he kind of freaked out in there."

"Sure you have no idea what might have caused it?"

"Yeah, no... I mean…"

"Could it be because of the blood?" John asked.

"Oh, god. Maybe… you could be right."

"Before, at the hospital, with the victim, I mean when he freaked out then: the smell of blood was intense in there, too, wasn't it?" John wanted confirmation of what he feared was causing all this.  
"What are you saying exactly? That he's freaking out when he smells _blood_?" the DI whispered, starting to understand.

"Er… Kind of, only a hypothesis at the moment."

"Great. I… now that I think about it… Shit... Definitely more than a hypothesis."

"Yeah, if this is what I think it is, it might become a real problem."

"He's not talking about it, isn't he?" Greg asked.

"Sherlock needs to do things in his own pace, which is either faster than anyone understands or slower than what we expect, because he needs more background knowledge and more explanations. He has started to talk and I am quite grateful for that," John explained.

"Yeah, well, let's hope it will work out."

"Night," John sighed.

"Good night, then."

 

Greg woke some time later and it took him several moments to remember where he was.

A minute went by until he found out what had woken him, he heard movement. He assumed at first that it was probably John, checking on him before heading to bed himself, but then a muffled sound could be heard nearby and he sat up in the bed.

The light in the kitchen was still on and illuminated the room just enough to make him see that Sherlock was curled into a ball on top of what looked like a large heap of blankets and throw pillows and at least three different kinds of bolsters, only a few feet away from the bed. He seemed to be sound asleep.

He suddenly felt very bad for taking the offer of using Sherlock's bed.

The bedside clock said 7.59.

Shit, morning already, he wanted more sleep. He still felt very exhausted.

Then another sound made him look around.

John entered the room and smiled at him.

"How are you doing?" he whispered.

"Christ, I shouldn't have taken Sherlock's bed."

"Don't worry, he has slept more times in that self-made nest than in his bed in the past weeks," John spoke in a low voice, "I've not figured out why, yet. But I fear I might partly be to blame about that. I'm glad he sleeps at all, though most of the time it's quite restless. So, he wouldn't have used the bed anyway. If he hadn't wanted your company in here he'd be on the couch right now. Go back to sleep, it's early," the doctor briefly watched Sherlock's breathing and then left again.

Moments later the light in the kitchen was switched off.

Greg watched Sherlock's dim outline in the blue light of early dawn. It seemed to be quite a proof of trust that Sherlock had come in to have a lie-down, or was he just oblivious that Greg was here?

No matter why, Greg liked the idea that Sherlock trusted him enough to do it.

While drifting back to sleep he heard Sherlock shift restlessly several times.

It was around noon when Greg woke up again.

By then, Sherlock was gone and the bedroom door was closed, but there were voices in the kitchen.

 

**Sunday noon**

"Give it to me, Mycroft."

"I want you to promise me that you will think about getting professional help with your little 'problem' Sherlock."

"You're trying to use blackmail as a substitute of brotherly affection again? Didn't work in the past, won't work now. I'll only get more and more pissed about you. Give it to me!"

Greg had just entered the kitchen, which was already full of people, John sitting at the breakfast table and Mary preparing toast. Mycroft was standing behind Sherlock who did his best to ignore him, he just held out his hand.

"Then at least promise me to _not_ damage the investigation by running off on your own," Mycroft's voice was sharp.

"Fine," Sherlock hissed between closed teeth.

Mycroft sighed demonstratively and put a large envelope into his brother's waiting hand.

"Hi Greg," Mary greeted.

"Hey there, guys."

"Good morning, inspector. I trust you have recovered from yesterday's ordeal?"

"Yeah, thanks. News?" Greg asked.

"Oh!" Sherlock exclaimed, obviously enthralled about the content of an unpacked manila folder, "Yes!"

"What is it?" John wanted to know.

"After I read Lestrade's report last night I convinced Mycroft to sent people over to the storage area and search for the bullet. Forensics is still searching through the rubble. They found both, the bullet and a weapon."

Sherlock held out a picture of a burned small calibre gun.

"Well, ehm... that's not the one he used to fire at the ground," Lestrade remarked.

"We know, but this one could be traced back to a man living only about a kilometre away from the explosion."

"We need to visit him."

"We will. In the early evening, when I have a search warrant, a strategy and the whole area secured. My agents are helping Lestrade's team and we need some time to coordinate and prepare. Other teams are already in place surveilling the area."

"Your exertion of influence is getting way too much with this investigation," Sherlock stood up and shoved his chair back under the table with too much force. The tableware clattered and John reached for the container of milk that toppled over, luckily it was closed tight.

The doctor hissed in disapproval while Sherlock stormed off into the living room where he started to play on his violin.

Mycroft puckered his lips, also in disapproval, when he drew breath to criticise his brother, John lifted his hand.

"Don't. Thank you for bringing the new evidence. He's quite stressed, don't make it worse. I'll handle it," John offered.

"John, as a doctor, you should be aware he's not getting any better."

"He is. I'm aware it's slow, yes, but he's taking meds now, and he has started talking to me. We're doing this at _his_ speed. Do not interfere and destroy what I have reached. This would do no one any good."

Mycroft looked as if he disagreed but demonstratively held it back, his disapproval though was written all over his face.

"Very well, then. There's also a copy of the toxicology reports, everything fine as it seems. I'll see you all later," he picked up his umbrella from next to the counter and left.

The kitchen was bathed in silence for almost a minute even after the front door had shut downstairs.

They ate breakfast without Sherlock.

.

The atmosphere in the flat remained tense and Sherlock only gave brief and unfriendly answers when addressed. He was understandably sulky about being left out of the planning but not eager to see Donovan again this soon. John convinced him to stay home until they meet with the other two teams of investigators later for interviewing the weapon owner.

Greg decided to go home, get fresh clothes and have a shower before heading over to Scotland Yard and join the team's preparations.

In the early afternoon Sherlock was driving the couple nuts, with loudly walking up and down the living room, which caused Mrs Hudson to come up. She stated that downstairs his steps were even more unbearable. The detective was now fully dressed in his suit and dressing shoes while he was 'thinking'.

After half an hour of agitated movement Mary decided this needed to stop.

 

Sherlock turned around once more in front of the fire place and stirred back into the direction of the sofa, but then he had to stop dead in his tracks when Mary blocked his way with a large mug in her hands.

The sudden silence and change of mood made John and Mrs Hudson look at them.

Mary stood there, holding the cup close to her chest with both hands and calmly looking up at the agitated man.

Sherlock - only a few decimetres away and frowning down at her - clearly irritated about the interruption, just stood there, too.

Then his gaze went down to the mug, then up again meeting her eyes, understanding dawning. The smell the cup was radiating was quite intense.

It was like a whole conversation was happening without words and everybody waited what would happen.

When Mary held out the mug a moment later, Sherlock took it, carefully inhaling it's scent as invisible as possible.

Mary acted as if nothing had happened and pulled another chair over to the coffee table. Phone in hand, she sat down with the others again, continuing to text as if nothing had happened.

Sherlock turned towards his large leather chair and sank into it, a bit hunched over the cup and staring down at it, totally oblivious to everybody watching. He hesitated for about a minute before carefully sipping the steaming liquid.

John raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

When the smell of fresh ginger reached his nostrils he looked over at his future wife and saw her whimsically look down on her display while she continued to text.

 

An hour later Sherlock had explained the new evidence and how he had the idea to search for the bullet, more weapons, and the injectors, which must also have serial numbers that might be traced. As soon as he started to talk about the case Mrs Hudson had returned to her flat.

The three of them discussed it for quite some time until Mary suddenly changed topics.

"Sherlock, you're very good when it comes to coordinating and planning. Would you help us with the wedding? It's a puzzle of major proportions to plan such an event and we think you'd be a very good wedding planner."

Sherlock looked up.

"I'm not good when it comes to… social… things."

"Oh, hang on. I'm not asking you to invite our guest personally, this is about coordinating stuff. You know, figuring out what caterer would fit best with the guests, choose a location, plan the 'course of events'. But that's all way in the future, for the beginning we need to start with other general things, like: finding the best suitable date and getting the formalities right. No social interaction necessary than with the two of us."

Sherlock's gaze went over to John and the confused look on his face was almost funny.

"You look as if you haven't expected that this might ever be a thing you'd do in your life, have you?" Mary joked.

"Correct," Sherlock simply stated.

"Well, then that's a challenge, isn't it? Come on, say yes, it'll be fun."

"Fun?" Sherlock asked with suspicion, as if she had suggested something completely horrible and was not getting it.

"Yeah, it will be."

"We'd like you to join us doing this," John said, smiling carefully.

Sherlock frowned.

"You'll do great. You don't have to answer right away, just think about it," Mary encouraged him.

"Unknown grounds are always a challenge," Sherlock mumbled, not looking at them.

"Is that a 'yes'?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered immediately.

"Oh, great," she stood up and hugged him although he was sitting down.

Sherlock stiffened but accepted the touch, giving her a frowning smile.

 

 

 

 

 


	79. Sunday evening - A fistfight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John join the police forces for another operation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.  
> .  
> Special thanks to Ashblood and Belen09 for pointing out grammar mistakes in the last chapters. I'm very grateful for your hints and constructive criticism.

 

 

In the early evening Lestrade picked them up and John was glad it was only the three of them in the car.

The DI explained that Donovan was already at the scene, as were Mycroft and his minions. Sherlock spent half the ride complaining about those facts Sherlock, put his frustration into words. Though the tiny little detail that Sherlock used the word _minions_ repeatedly, made John grin. As did the hoodie jumper Sherlock had chosen to wear, and his artificial dirty clothing to round out the disguise.

Although the consulting detective had taken his coat with him, he had expressed his desire to leave it in the car. Instead he was wearing an old kagoul and stated that he wanted to be able to move without being recognised at first sight.

John also assumed the bulky jacket was the perfect way to hide the gun Sherlock had brought and that was currently the cause of a bulge in one of the large side pockets of the jacket. The former soldier had his own gun with him, too, but was a bit surprised about Sherlock's decision, the man usually did not carry.

When they reached the meeting point - five large black vans that were parked several blocks away from the target - loads of people where already there, trying to behave inconspicuous and stay in the cars as much as possible.

As soon as they had joined the police force / agents Sherlock was informed by his brother that this would have to go by the book and that Sherlock was expected to be a bystander, which lead to a flood of unfriendly words between the brothers.

In the middle of going over the plan how to proceed Sherlock decided he needed a smoke. John offered to join him but he was told to stay and memorise the strategy.

Inwadly the doctor cursed, he assumed Sherlock would go for a stroll, inspecting the area around the house. Mycroft would send them home if he found out, but as long as John stayed, his absence would not attract too much attention.

Only ten minutes later Sherlock was back, it had started to drizzle by then.

No one had commented on his absence.

The old-fashioned woollen cap the detective was wearing had caught small silver droplets and the disguise made John grin once more. This time Sherlock grinned back, probably fully aware how ridiculous it looked. He removed the hat immediately.

They were back to grinning at crime scenes and John had to admit he was really glad about it.

Sherlock's costume was not bad, but the darkness and the weather probably helped a lot to hide their actions. Next time John would come prepared, too. He had just accepted they'd wait in the background somehow, not expecting to get into the action.

Or maybe he had wished that Sherlock would stay with him if he did and be save.

John flinched mentally when he realised that meant he subconsciously might have doubts that Sherlock was well enough to act professionally or to handle any situation that might occur.

Or was he just trying to keep his friend safe, now that he had him back?

Kind of overprotective?

Was Mycroft right and Sherlock was a danger to himself and others?

He huffed in annoyance about his brief scepsis, Sherlock with flashbacks and triggers acted still a lot better and reliable than most people at the high or their abilities. He trusted Sherlock more than anybody else, even with the recent problems.

It had been the other way round some years ago. Sherlock had trusted him when he was ridden by the symptoms of PTSD.

It _had_ made him jumpier, for sure, prone to be triggered, but Sherlock had trusted him to be able to handle it. He had managed - most of the time.

If anyone could handle this, it was Sherlock.

John knew why he was vehemently fighting Mycroft about this. Sherlock needed this, although he also needed to learn about his problems, he needed to continue to work, as had John.

Well, maybe he himself was getting settled too much currently, considering a marriage, living with his wife, thinking about children.

Would that really be a life he could adjust to?

A few months ago he had been so sure of it.

Had he given up craving for action?

No, he had just been too tired and too exhausted and broken after Sherlock's death to muster the energy to go after it.

Half a year ago it had finally started to come back - that he craved for more action in his life - again.

Now that Sherlock was back, he felt he wanted to have his share once more, as long as it wasn't affecting his relationship to Mary in a bad way, at least.

While John mused about his life Sherlock pretended to listen to the briefing, as if he had been there all the time, in the background.

When his friend suddenly asked things he couldn't even know to ask about without having being there the whole time, John once more wondered how he did it. He was probably just still good with remembering procedures, so that he could just foresee what they planned, or had he nicked someone's notes?

After what felt like ages the teams assembled and started to get into position, one by one.

Sherlock followed Lestrade's team and John followed Sherlock, trying to convince him to stay in the background, but the consulting detective ignored him.

When the signal came to storm the house, though, they did stay back, John's grip on Sherlock's arm clearly signalling him he wouldn't allow his friend to just ran in there without protective gear.

Sherlock didn't fight him, but when a few minutes later Lestrade's "All clear, you can come in, Sherlock," came over the radio, he hurried inside. At least Lestrade was thinking of Sherlock's need to take part when Mycroft obviously wasn't.

John's hope sank, it had been over way too fast and so quietly it was likely that the house was empty.

The moment they entered, the stench hit them like a wall.

They passed some police men who looked green and nauseous, the air inside was dry and warm.

"Who's dead?" Sherlock asked no one in particular.

"We don't know, yet," Greg had a hand over his mouth and holstered his weapon with the other one.

"Dead man in the living room. Dead for some time. The weather is cold, heating is up, windows are closed, dry air slowed down the process."

Sherlock headed into the living room without hesitation. John followed his former flatmate.

The dead man had started not only decomposing, but also to mummify partially and the stench was horrible.

"It's the man we are here for, the owner of the gun. Probably dead for…" Sherlock fetched his phone out of his bum bag and studied something.

"Temperature constantly around 5° outside, 23 inside… that means… about two or three months."

"Months? What?" Lestrade asked, "That long? He looks like…"

"Rough guess, plus or minus three weeks. Sorry, the weather was better before, wasn't it? I didn't put that in the equation, wasn't in town."

Greg shook his head in disbelieve, "No one should be able to calculate that this fast, you know."

"You want me to pretend I need longer next time to humour you?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, please," Lestrade said dryly.

John stepped closer, too. Taking a closer look at first.

Then a hand appeared in front of his face, holding a fresh vinyl glove, a bit too near. It was of course Sherlock's hand.

The doctor took it and slipped his hand in, then decided only looking wouldn't get them very far.

"Can I have a look?"

"That's what you are here for, right? Knock yourself out," Greg nodded.

The former army doctor peeled back the woollen blanket the figure was half covered with. Under it, the body looked worse in terms of decay, but only because moisture had not been able to evaporate from under the synthetic fabric.  The lack of a large amount of maggots was odd though.

"How had nobody smelled this?"

"Probably the heating was used on a high setting and…" Sherlock gestured towards two large units in the room "…dehumidifiers were used."

"What for?" Donovan had stepped in, wearing a bullet proof vest.

"Obviously to lengthen the time until the body was discovered. How did this man earn his money?" Sherlock asked her.

"He was receiving an army pension," someone answered from the back.

"Maybe someone wanted the money to continue to come," Sherlock suggested.

"You mean…?" Sally started.

"…our perpetrator, maybe? But there are about another thirty-four other possible scenarios. I want to narrow it down, excuse me."

Sherlock started to wander through the house, followed slowly by John and Lestrade, when he wasn't otherwise occupied.

.

Twenty minutes of inspecting the scene later Sherlock fetched a key ring from a wall mounted key box near the cellar door, a single key dangled from something that was labelled: _bunker_.

"Another key," Sherlock held it up. "What is it with this case and keys?"

"There are about twenty more in here, why _this_ one?"

"How many people you know who have a key to a shelter?"

"Might be a joke, something that is called 'bunker' for fun, you know, military bloke. Could be the cellar door key," John suggested.

Sherlock took a deep breath, then closed his eyes, holding the key in between his pressed together palms, that were still clad in his leather gloves.

"Sherlock?" John asked, a bit worried.

"Shut up, I need to think!"

John and Greg had barely exchanged hesitating looks when Sherlock hurried into the bathroom and closed the door.

John followed, not ready to leave Sherlock alone.

When he opened the bathroom door again, Sherlock had sat down on the edge of the toilet's closed lid, in one of his thinking positions, he looked the opposite of relaxed.

The room was meticulously clean and in order, as was the rest of the house. The good thing was that the smell was not as bad in here. The door must have been closed during the past weeks.

A moment later the door opened again and Greg followed them into the large bathroom, too. Oddly enough it was bigger than the kitchen. Since it was a crime scene no one expected Sherlock to need privacy in there.

After three minutes of silence someone else poked his head in, but when he saw the two silently waiting for something in a restroom, the person vanished again without a word, must have been one of Mycroft's goons, according to his suit.

Only another two minutes later Sherlock opened his eyes, looking up at them.

"There's an air raid shelter in between this property and the next. Underground. There might be a small hut, above it to hide the entrance. But it's not small underground. The hut contains a stairwell that leads downwards, it's surrounded by a fence, maybe grown over. Hard to see."

"How do you know?" Lestrade had opened the door wide again and some people were standing outside, eager to know what was going on. They were all silently waiting for an explanation.

"A few weeks ago we had a case with a young woman, who died during some WW2 re-enactment," Sherlock explained. "Remember?"*

Greg nodded.

"'Course," John muttered.

"During my investigations I looked up every site on the internet that was about WW2 re-enacting in the London area. I found a link to a site that was very interesting in a historical sense. There were historical maps - interactive ones - where people could mark spots where old WW2 bunkers, air raid shelters and similar things were - or still are – located. All coming with descriptions of the state of the object and accessibility. Some kind of bunker wiki, for lack of a better word."

"Well, that's…," Lestrade started.

"…quite interesting, yes," Sherlock didn't let him finish, "To be honest I found it _really_ entertaining, read them all. There are many such locations, often hidden in plain sight, but only a handful of people know what it is they see in between a parking space and a supermarket: the old entrance to a bunker. Some of those old shelters can't be entered or are unsafe, but these people seek for adventure. Therefore objects that are broken into already or easy to trespass are preferred. Some of those historic buildings are on private ground or far away from houses so breaking in wouldn't be discovered. Really interesting."

"You mean this key actually opens an old WW2 bunker in the backyard?"

"Yes, that's what I just said, didn't I?" Sherlock left the bathroom without haste but then suddenly hurried past the people standing around and headed towards the back door, "That is if I memorized the map correctly."

"Wait, what if he's down there?"

"We'll know soon. We have to hurry, he might be already alerted to our presence."

"What? How?"

But Sherlock started to run through the back door.

John followed and saw his friend fumble for the torch in his jacket, something must have alarmed Sherlock.

Lestrade followed too of course, yelling orders to his people.

It was once more raining and almost pitch dark, only the lights from the house and some distant street lights provided meagre illumination, but with every metre they ran it became darker. The torches were not much help while running.

The property was larger than John had expected and Lestrade was slowed down because he tried to speak into his radio to inform his men to follow while he ran.

"Sherlock, could you slow down?"

This time John had problems keeping up with Sherlock.

"Nope."

The distance between them was growing and John wondered if Sherlock's toes would suffer additional damage.

The consulting detective was running like hell, some adrenaline must have kicked in, because the little Sherlock had eaten in the past days was surely not giving him much to burn.

When Sherlock rounded what looked like a hedge in the distance, he was suddenly completely out of John's sight. At this point the distant light from the house was no use at all and running with the torch as the only source of light became had become a lot trickier.

The doctor cursed about being left behind.

While he was running he had seen how Sherlock had produced and then prepared his weapon. It was different from before, he handled it with more ease, obviously more used to it. Sherlock had obviously become a lot more familiar with weapons during his time away, and he had also become quite fit, even if it was impaired by a loss of weight, the torture and his mental state, which had made him neglect his body's needs and therefore weakened him.

Then suddenly he heard Sherlock yell and he sped up, that couldn't be good.

John came around the wild growth and saw two man fighting hand to hand in the dark. He lifted his torch with one hand, this gun drawn in his other hand, steadying his aim.

"Freeze!"

They didn't, which made it impossible for John to get a clear shot, not even at the man's feet.

"Stop it, right there!" he used his commando voice, but they continued to throw punches at each other, were a wild tangle of moving limbs.

At least John was fairly certain none of them had currently a gun in their hands.

"Watch the door!" Sherlock could be heard yelling, but John saw no door.

The perpetrator used that moment to ram his shoulder into Sherlock's stomach and the detective grunted. His hand to hand combat technique had obviously also improved, though the villain seemed to be trained quite well and rather strong for his height, too.

Wondered briefly if it was a good idea to let Sherlock do it like this, but then figuring out he had not really a choice, since it was just too dark and risky, John tried to step in twice but it didn't work at all.

Lestrade arrived only five seconds later, but before he had drawn breath to yell another 'Freeze', Sherlock finally managed to punch the surprised perpetrator directly in the face, who was just about to try to start another attack.

John was sure he'd go down but instead he kicked Sherlock's thigh hard, missing his groin for which he had clearly aimed.

Sherlock flinched, but only slightly, and then got his chance and knocked the man out with his elbow, right into the face.

The aggressor dropped like a stone, the force Sherlock had put behind the movement had been quite strong.

"Jesus, Sherlock!" Lestrade was angry.

"What?" Sherlock panted, his tone rather unnerved, "I caught him!"

Sherlock leaned down, rested his hands on his knees and continued to pant, the short but intense fight _had_ affected him.

"You're sure it's him?" John asked, now next to Sherlock, shining his light into the unconscious man's face.

"I wouldn't have attacked him if he wasn't the right man!"

"Well, I'm sure, too," Greg agreed, "This is the man who attacked us at the warehouse, definitely. This was the opposite of what we had planned. Where's your weapon, Sherlock?"

Lestrade rolled the stunned man onto his side, not too gently, and cuffed him.

Then spoke to his men over the radio.

It was clearly their perpetrator, though disguised - kind of. He looked different than before, more mature, as well in clothing as in his hairstyle, he had changed his outer appearance with great skill.

John searched the grass, he was sure Sherlock shouldn't be caught having a gun.

"When did you learn this?" Lestrade asked.

"You're insulting me, right?… She's probably down there. Search him for more keys and… stuff."

The man in the grass didn't move, Sherlock must have hit him quite hard, which made John feel for his pulse and check his pupils, just to make sure he was alive.

"How did you know he was here?" John asked, then.

"I didn't, but there was a web cam in the house, made it a likely assumption. It was hidden above the hallway door, in a storage compartment hanging there, whoever was watching had a clear sight of the hallway. I started to run when I spotted it had been activated - red LED suddenly glowing - because I realised he'd sooner or later see us and escape. I was right, he had just locked the door when I arrived here and surprised him."

"Hold on! Which door?"

Sherlock straightened and shoved away a veil of hanging branches and ivy.

A large metal door was revealed and he produced the key from before and shoved it into the keyhole, though he didn't turn it.

Without a light he headed back to a place several steps away and picked up his weapon.

"Shit, you know where it was? Did you drop it on purpose?" John asked, a bit shocked.

Sherlock ignored him and returned to the door.

"What kind of stunt was that?" Lestrade asked, obviously also a bit desolate.

They were all very glad to have caught him, but the tension was rising nevertheless, and John was not looking forward to see in how much trouble Sherlock would be in as soon as Mycroft found out.

But the girl was still missing and the chance that there were accomplices was still a factor, of which Greg and John were very aware, so anger and discussions would have to wait.

 

 


	80. The Bunker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They finally find the perpetrator's den.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made.

 

 

Sherlock reached for the bunker key, which was still waiting in the keyhole, but Lestrade's hand stopped him.

"Don't. You don't know what's down there, he might as well has booby trapped this. We better wait for the team to do this by the book. As your brother pointed out, this needs to be done correctly. We can't afford that he gets away because of formalities. You caught him, you did great, but let us do _this_."

Sherlock hissed angrily but stepped back.

The arrival of agents, police staff and medics was accompanied by bright lights and noise.

Some specialist made sure it was safe to open the door, which seemed to take ages. Sherlock had time to smoke three cigarettes in row, Lestrade joined and smokes one of his own. When they had finally secured the door and it was ready to be opened, the troops stormed the bunker, Lestrade on their heels.

A short time later Lestrade gave them the "All clear," over the radio and John and Sherlock headed down the spiral concrete staircase.

The hallway was neither dark nor bedraggled. It was brightly lit and wider than John had expected. It was possible for two people to pass each other easily and Sherlock didn't need to duck to go down the stairs. This didn't look at all like a small bunker and it looked well kept and maintained.

At first Sherlock was hurrying down but after what seemed to be two or three circles he slowed down. John, who was walking behind him and watched his steps almost ran into him.

"What is it?"

Sherlock stopped, but neither turned nor spoke.

"Sherlock?"

When again no reply came John gently put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and stepped down around him three steps to look at his face.

Sherlock turned away to face the concave wall the moment John passed him.

"What is it?... Can you hear me?" John repeated and shifted his hand a bit more towards Sherlock's neck.

When still no reaction came he tightened his grip, which finally made the other man turn around, but he didn't look up.

"It's getting worse, isn't it?"

The detective said nothing and John gently squeezed his trapezius muscle to get his attention.

Sherlock just pressed his lips together and closed his eyes, it wasn't an answer but at least it was a sign he was with the doctor and listening to him.

"Is it the stairwell?"

Sherlock shook his head, his jaw was clenched.

"The light? What?"

His friend shook his head once more but didn't move away from the touch.

"Come on, tell me. What the hell is happening?" the doctor urged gently.

"Smell," came the answer, hoarsely with a grimace of disgust.

John slowly let go of Sherlock and tried to concentrate.

There was a light musty smell in the air, not really bad, just like in the cellar of an old house.

"Smell is intense… bringing memories back."

"Well, I don't want to trigger anything, but can you - very briefly - tell me what it reminds you of?"

"Torture. Dungeon," Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth.

John sucked in air slowly, "Since you stopped I assume it's bad?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said with suppressed impatience.

"Does it help when I talk?"

Sherlock opened his eyes again and now looked at John, who expected a nasty remark.

But after the detective had stared at him intensely with narrowed eyes for several moments he just nodded.

"Alright. On a scale from one to ten, when ten is 'panic-attack of major proportions ' and one is you feel uneasy. Where is this?"

"Four or five."

"Right, OK. Do you want to go down there?"

Sherlock's gaze clearly showed he thought the idea not to continue was absolutely disgusting and ridiculous.

"I guess that's a 'yes'. Fine. Firstly: I know how this feels. This sucks. Secondly: Thank you for being honest with me. Thirdly: I'll try to keep you grounded, concentrate on my voice. Fourthly: … here."

John held out his hand, it contained a small silvery box, which the detective immediately recognised as a brand of extra strong mints. He looked up at John, and there was something surprised in his eyes that had nothing to do with the smell.

"Thank you," Sherlock sounded more touched than expected. He put three of the pastilles in his mouth and concentrated on breathing.

"Can you promise me to tell me if this gets too much?"

Sherlock hesitated.

"We need a private signal for this kind of stuff," the doctor suggested.

"What for?"

"I don't want you to suffer through having a flashback with an audience. I remember I once had an anxiety attack on the streets and believe me it was… bad. People staring at you in this kind of situation is a lousy experience. And I guess you will like it even less than I did. Let's take precautions. How about you hand over that box back to me as a secret signal if you need to get out."

Sherlock nodded and turned away, then continued down the stairs, a lot slower than before, though.

The doctor relaxed a bit, Sherlock was unnerved but had not told him to piss off, had excepted help, told him what was going on. Which was good, although the fact that Sherlock even admitted it was getting worse was a bad sign and looming over the proof of trust.

When they reached the bottom Sherlock's clenched jaw muscles were the only sign left of his distress, only recognisable for someone who knew him well.

To their surprise they found the entrance to a fully equipped living area, basic, but with everything needed for daily life. The furniture and carpets seemed to be a long outdated, but not shabby or moth-eaten.

There was also a small black and white monitor in the hallway that showed a live feed from the hallway of the house on the surface.

When they entered the 'living room' the missing girl was on the sofa, in front of a large plasma TV set, not moving, but obviously very agitated about the tumult and people running around with guns. She was very pale and breathing way too fast.

Donovan was already taking care of her, she was the only female in the team and tried to soothe her and explain to her what was happening. Sally was obviously quite alarmed by her state.

After a brief look at Sherlock, with assured John the other man was doing fine now that the smell was gone, he hurried over to the paralysed woman. Although he knew what the drug did, he made Sally radio the medics again to urge them to come down as soon as possible.

"She can have some of the antidote," Sherlock offered, stepping closer to John, who was kneeling in front of the young woman, "I have another vial in my pocket."

"Er, I think she just needs some medical attention and come off of it on her own. The safe way, you know," John explained, "How much of the stuff did you make?"

"Well, not taking it would safe her stomach cramps, so you're probably right," Sherlock agreed, but with a sarcastic undertone, looking overall quite uninterested in her and her state.

"Why didn't you tell me?" John stood up and turned towards him.

"What for? Would you have blown on it and made it better that way?" Sherlock tantalised.

"Not good, Sherlock," John mumbled, just loud enough to make sure his former flatmate heard him. He was aware this was a manifestation of Sherlock's stress, the consulting detective was not really intentionally rude. He had seen this behaviour in quite an amount of varieties during his time in rehab with other PTSD patients.

"Sorry," Sherlock mumbled - tone still agitated - and turned away. Then he started to inspect the bunker and ignored everybody else thoroughly for the next two hours.

John left him alone but kept an eye on him, his sudden bad mood was a clear sign to let him be for a bit, so he just observed. Also, the doctor was still a bit angry about him running off alone before.

Sherlock bagged evidence and wrote notes until Mycroft entered the underground living space, carrying his umbrella and a frown on his face.

The woman had been carried away by paramedics a long time ago, and now it was just police and forensics.

"I am not happy about this, brother dear."

"Never expected you to be, Mycroft," Sherlock spit back. "You have never before shown any sign of gratitude, no matter what I accomplished. I don't expect it, so why are we talking about this? I could have saved the world and you wouldn't be pleased. I probably did save the world last…"

"Don't be so over-dramatic," Mycroft interrupted, he sounded quite angry. "I told you not to run off on your own, Sherlock!"

"John was there the whole time, he perfectly had my back."

Deciding it would be better to say nothing, John remained silent, he'd address this later when they had privacy.

"Guys, guys. I know this was bad, but can we just _not_ make a scene right here and pretend we are happy for the moment?" Lestrade interrupted and stepped closer, "We saved the girl, we caught a serial killer. We did a great job, so let's just be proud of ourselves for a bit and celebrate. This was big and everyone did well!"

John was grateful for these words and realised immediately this was Greg being a protective about Sherlock. But obviously he had said the wrong thing because the next moment Sherlock had turned his back and was on the stairs.

"Shit," Lestrade cursed, "What did I do?" he addressed John.

"I don't know, mate." John sighed, "He's dissatisfied with his performance in this case and maybe also in general, and I assume he feels you just praised him out off pity or maybe he feels pathetic being commended for bad work. I suppose I better go after him," John turned towards the exit, too.

"Oh," Lestrade just made and nodded.

"Besides, this was probably a bit too anticlimactic for his taste. After the work he did in the past two years this must seem boring," Mycroft added.

"What are you trying to say, Mycroft?" John stopped briefly on his way out.

"Nothing, doctor. Please make sure he doesn't do anything stupid, would you?" Mycroft grinned and John wasn't if the remark was based on ulterior motives.

No one disagreed and he hurried after the consulting detective.

**.**

When John reached the surface again, he was glad that he could see Sherlock in the distance, walking towards the house against a halo of bright lights. The police had installed what seemed to be suited to illuminate a small stadium in the large garden.

Sherlock's form was a bit odd, the coat was missing and he was hunching over because of the rain that had started anew. His hands were buried deep in the rain jacket.

It was an oddly lonesome scene and Sherlock's posture screamed 'frustration'. It took a few moments until the doctor realised the man walking in front of him was favouring the foot with his good toes.

Shit, he had probably damaged the healing ones again, and had received a few punches.

John hurried to catch up with him while he pulled out a phone to call a cab.

Shortly before they reached the house they were walking side by side. John didn't speak, just joined him.

They went around the house, not bothering to go into it again, and Sherlock stopped at the pavement.

"Chinese?" John asked, a bit sentimental, maybe, but he was hungry.

"Yes," Sherlock simply said and fetched his coat.

.

**Sunday night**

They had just entered the Chinese restaurant to order take away when Sherlock's mobile rang. He answered and listened.

"Alright, pick us up," he finally said and rang off.

"What is it?"

"There are complications with the girl, she is in a bad state and it seems our perpetrator is conscious again, but refusing to talk. Since I spend days analysing that drug, I'm probably the most competent person you can get right after the killer, so they're calling us in. Told me to bring my research as well. We'll pick up my notes at Baker Street and then go to the hospital," Sherlock explained heading out of the restaurant just as the waiter was ready to take their order.

"Bloody hell, she has a name, besides 'girl'… She's actually a grown woman, could you make the effort to remember it for the upcoming interaction, please?"

"Right, what was it again?"

 

.

Four hours later they still hadn't eaten.

The young victim was indeed in a bad state, drifting in and out of consciousness, her vitals messed up and panicky whenever she resurfaced enough to think three straight thoughts in a row. She was not able to move yet, incarcerated in her own body and caught in her horrible memories.

When they arrived at A&E, Lestrade was trying the same thing Sherlock had done for him, he talked to her, explained what was happening. He told her that he had been drugged with the same stuff the day before, so she knew he could relate, but it was no use since she was out of her mind with fear, no one could reach her.

Sherlock and John were picked up by a nurse and brought to a conference room where some lab technicians, a drug specialist, an anaesthetist and several other specialists were already waiting.

Together they went through every tiny bit of information Sherlock had learned about the drug, its components, possible side effects, cross reactions and so on.

They even took more of Sherlock's and Lestrade's blood to gather more information.

In the end they worked out a plan for her treatment and decided to give her a diluted version of Sherlock's antidote, which they insisted to reproduce themselves to leave out some of the stuff they didn't deem save. Therefore they asked Sherlock to explain his receipt in detail again and started to discuss possible changes.

John was once more impressed by Sherlock's knowledge, but the man was a graduate chemist after all, and it was showing, in a good way. 

While listening John understood another thing. Sherlock had spend the nights experimenting, a thing he was perfectly able to do, felt safe to do, could relax into the activity because it was familiar and science and followed rules.

Safe, honest, cause-and-effect rules. Familiar in a situation where everything was bad, new, and different and everything well-known was good and a safe haven.

When he had returned to London after Afghanistan, he himself had missed to be able retreat into those things, had spend much time recreating them with Ella, because he had nothing left in England when he came back.

No home, no retreat, no family, no medicine, no army, nothing he valued, nothing he felt safe with, there was just no place he had left he could return to.

It was odd, now that he saw Sherlock go through those things he understood his own issues suddenly a bit better, which helped him understand Sherlock better.

His friend was sometimes good in doing the right thing for his psyche without having a clue about it, it just happened. He'd have denied it, but it worked. He did odd things one could only understand after knowing him for a long time.

John decided to ask Sherlock more about those things again. They had done this in the past. The doctor had asked why he did things the way he did, had listened. He needed to pay more attention to that once more, needed to remind himself to be open about Sherlock's queer ways once more, enjoy seeing them, as he had done in the past.

He had not been really good at that in the last weeks, hadn't he?

Although he tried, he was hesitant. Maybe had he feared Sherlock might leave again, but now he was finally quite sure Sherlock would do his best to stay.

Listening to Sherlock's scientific lectures and explanations felt so very good, safe and home for him, too.

He bit his lip and frowned when his emotions were assaulting him in that stupid lab full of hospital personnel.

His friend must have sensed it because he caught John's gaze and held it for what felt like a very long time.

Meanwhile mouth went on talking about a special procedure in the manufacturing process, but somehow something different was happening simultaneously and in silence between them.

They had had a remarkably good non-verbal communication in the past, but it was somehow muted since Sherlock's return, only slowly returning.

At first Sherlock looked a bit distressed about the way John watched him, but it soon turned into something else, something more relaxed and then Sherlock shyly smiled, which obviously made several people in the group wonder what was going on behind their back and they promptly followed his gaze.

Sherlock skilfully pretended John had done something funny to cover the kind of mystical moment, and then switched off the light to make them turn their gazes away and towards the wall, that was now lit by an overhead projector.

Something had happened to Sherlock in these few moments, he didn't know what it was, but the man's gaze had held something… a spark of something, something positive.

John couldn't describe it, it just felt as if something had returned to Sherlock… or to them, and it made John bite his lip even harder because more emotions welled up.

Luckily by now Sherlock was drawing some complex formulas or atoms or whatever on the whiteboard and the focus of the group was completely on what he was showing them.

John leaned back against the wall and just savoured the moment.

.

After the meeting they returned to the young woman, who was now not only surrounded by medical staff, but also by Donovan and Lestrade.

"Hey, I just talked to Mycroft. He's into some background stuff about the bunker and the administration. He'll know more tomorrow."

"Anything from our villain?"

"No, he has been briefly - and heavily guarded - treated for a concussion, and is now incarcerated, therefore we can't interview him before tomorrow morning."

"I should have shot him in the foot," Sherlock added dryly.

"Well, not really. Then he'd be here in hospital, and quite frankly, I like him in prison," Lestrade explained, "Besides, I'm really glad you did not fire a single shot, that paperwork would have chained me to my desk for a week."

"Oh, I was of course holding back to make you happy," Sherlock added, now sounding a bit sarcastic, but a thin smile was on his face.

Greg smiled back and padded his shoulder.

"Can we go?" John asked. He needed something to eat and a kiss from Mary and some quiet time at Baker Street with Sherlock, in that order.

"I caught you when you were getting something to eat, right? Sorry, go and have dinner."

For the second time that day they headed for the Chinese restaurant.

.

Mary had already eaten when they came back home, but was eager to hear about the events of the day: the arrest of a serial killer.

In the middle of John's recount, after finishing his meal and taking his meds, Sherlock retreated into his room, leaving the door open.

At first John thought he just went to plug in his phone or get something, but he didn't come back and when John checked on him a bit later he was sleeping in his dressing gown, under the covers of his bed, again.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have absolutely no idea if is possible to make an antidote to my fictional drug, I also have no medical knowledge at all and also no knowledge about NHS procedures. Everything about this drug and procedures is purely fictional.  
> As is the bunker location homepage, the administration and maintenance of the old buildings, I made the facts up to fit my needs. If someone has knowledge I would of course be pleased to change things to come closer to reality.  
> I was inspired after I saw the documentaries 'Churchill's Secret Bunkers Documentary History' and 'The Real Dads Army', I really recommend those hereby.   
> Really interesting, but a bit heavy stuff, worth watching.   
> So if your are interested in some real history go where Sherlock learned how to fold serviettes :)  
> I'd love to get some feedback.


	81. Monday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is not eager so join Scotland Yard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made.

 

The next morning John was needed at the surgery, he had suggested that Sherlock could go to Scotland Yard without him and keep him up to date about what was happening via text messages.

Lestrade texted Sherlock twice during the morning and informed him briefly about the interrogation but received no reply.

Around noon the DI took a break from the observation room to call Sherlock, but no one picked up, so he called John, who called Mrs Hudson, who told John that Sherlock was still sleeping.

Greg frowned at the text he received from John about a sleeping Sherlock, but accepted that the man was not really well and put his staff off until the consultant came in by himself.

The DI himself still felt the aftermath of being drugged as well as the double shift they had done the day before. Sherlock deserved to sleep, should sleep in fact.

Greg just hoped he'd for once get some real rest. Seeing Sherlock sleeping on the ground had unsettled him and he was now worrying more than ever about the state his friend was in.

A short time later Mycroft called and suggested an official meeting, he promised to bring his brother in if he hadn't arrived on his own by 15:00.

.

When the older Holmes arrived at the flat at 14:30 Sherlock was busy playing his violin, which he had done since he had woken up an hour ago, according to Mrs Hudson, who stopped Mycroft downstairs before he could climb the stairs.

She also told him that he barely played these days and that she was really worried therefore.

Mycroft heard how sloppy his brother's fingers were on the strings and assured her he'd take care of it.

.

When Mycroft entered the living room, Sherlock didn't even realise it at first, he was concentrating on trying to make his fingers work as he was used to, but they didn't.

He was trying to use the recently built new independent level of his mind palace to play, but since there was no data or notes there, it was kind of futile. Therefore he tried to play from sheets but it was not as relaxing as from memory.

Only when the tip of the bow suddenly got stuck in midair he opened his eyes in surprise.

His brother had gripped it with two fingers and held it, preventing Sherlock to pull it over the strings.

"Don't!" Sherlock grumbled, angry about himself for letting his guard down.

"I'm here to pick you up. You haven't reacted to calls, texts or the doorbell."

"I'm busy."

"Lestrade wants you in for the meeting," Mycroft said.

"I won't go, not yet. They can wait. The perpetrator doesn't talk anyway."

"They started interrogating him in the morning without you, because you didn't reply."

Sherlock looked a bit affronted but only for a few seconds.

"What are we waiting for? For you to finish your practicing session? You shouldn't overdo it, your fingers need to get callus back, it'll do you no good playing excessively after a pause this long."

Mycroft gripped Sherlock's left hand and turned it upside down to see his fingertips, which caused the violin neck to hover mid-air, held by Sherlock's chin and shoulder.

Some fingertips had started to form blisters, all of them were red.

Sherlock realised that if he didn't stop now he wouldn't be able to play in the upcoming weeks at all.

He used the bow to gently poke Mycroft's chest and get his hand free, then put the violin back in her case.

"You found out some things about the bunker, didn't you?"

"Yes, we are expected for a meeting with the Met and Scotland Yard. I'm sure you can wait another few minutes to listen to it all, especially since you chose not to communicate for hours. This can't be too pressing, can it?"

Sherlock grunted.

"You go, I'll follow later."

Sherlock was even more unnerved and less eager to meet his obnoxious brother than usual.

"Why the delay?"

"I will come _later_. Go away."

"You're waiting for John, how nice of you."

Sherlock knew his brother would figure it out. He was not even sure why he wanted to wait for his former flatmate. There was absolutely no logical reason why he should wait for him to come.

John had told him he had to work, and suggested the detective went ahead and he'd come from work directly to Scotland Yard as soon as he was finished, but something made Sherlock reluctant about the idea although he couldn't figure it out.

"Have you become dependent on your _goldfish_?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Well, I think you're in dire need of psychological help and your dear doctor is not the right person to solemnly rely on. Besides, he is clearly overextended with working in a surgery and being a fulltime babysitter for you."

"What?" Sherlock was badly surprised by the sudden change to what he considered a rather sensitive topic.

"You heard me. I see no need to repeat myself. You need help. You're getting worse."

"Stop intruding, it's no business of yours. I'm fine."

"No, you are not. You're a mess, far from your usual level of performance. Don't you see? I can recommend some very good specialists that have the necessary security clearance."

"I said 'no'!"

"Already checked with them for openings in their time tables," Mycroft continued as if he hadn't heard. Then held out a small piece of paper with several dates and names.

"I don't need a psychiatrist!"

"Yes, you do, now stop acting like a child and get some professional help."

"I am fine!"

"If you are _not_ able to see how slow and unproductive your work is currently, then you must be worse than I thought. Or have you become too fainthearted to deduce your own state? Isn't that what _normal_ people do?"

This touched a nerve and Sherlock felt himself become more angry than he should, he knew his brother's teasing, he should be able to ignore it.

"Go away Mycroft!" he yelled.

"Even if I go, the problem will stay, and John is not able to help you properly. Open your eyes and let somebody help."

As was Sherlock's, Mycroft's voice was getting louder.

He then reached out to grasp Sherlock's hand and put the piece of paper into it.

This time Sherlock flinched, hard, when touched.

Neither Mycroft nor Sherlock had expected it and therefore they both stared at Sherlock's hand.

"Proving my point, isn't it?" the older brother said in a demonstratively soothing tone after some long moments of silence.

"Piss off Mycroft," and with that, Sherlock turned away and headed to his room, banging the door shut after himself.

With a sigh Mycroft left the flat, but texted John as soon as he reached his car.

.

'Sherlock is sulking, refusing to come to Scotland Yard, if there is a possibility to come home earlier, everyone would be delighted. MH.'

'What happened?' John answered within a few moments.

'I suggested he understands he is not 'fine' and sees a specialist. I also tried to take him to Scotland Yard. He refused. MH'

'Great,' John answered sarcastically and then decided he was too angry at Mycroft to write more. He could imagine how sensitive the man had been. Of course Sherlock would not admit how he really was to his loving brother.

What the hell was Mycroft thinking?

He couldn't really be that dense, to think that telling Sherlock he needed a psychiatrist could bring any positive outcome.

John rearranged his schedule and made someone else take over the only two patients that were urgent, then left for Baker Street.

When he arrived, he found the consultant in his bed and it took him quite some time until he managed to convince Sherlock to even sit up, only to find out he was dizzy and suffering from quite a headache, as well as the aftermath of Mycroft's visit.

Sherlock was convinced the first two were side effects from his medication and refused to talk about it or let the doctor take a look at him.

It took John a long time to coax him out of his bed and into some fresh clothes, but finally they were on their way to Scotland Yard.

 

The meeting had been postponed, not because of Sherlock but because of the interrogation, which was still in progress.

Sherlock directly headed to the interrogation room, not bothering to inform anyone he had arrived. Without hesitating he knocked on the observation room's door, and after a moment Lestrade came out. But instead of talking to the man Sherlock passed him and went in.

Greg stood outside, irritated for a moment, then closed the door from the outside.

"What happened?" he addressed John.

"Mycroft happened. Told him he's nuts and needs help, if I got it right, that is. He's not talking about it."

"Why didn't he come in this morning?"

"I don't know, Greg. Had to work, told him to go ahead. He didn't. Maybe he feels like shit from the meds' side effects. He's not talking about that, either."

The DI looked uneasy and sighed.

"Okay, let's go in, shall we..."

John followed him into the dark room.

Sally could be seen through the window that showed the interrogation room. The perpetrator and another man John didn't know were in there with her.

Sally was talking but the suspect definitely wasn't.

Sherlock watched them intensely, standing close to the window that provided a one way view into the other room, his hands behind his back, the scarf sloppily hanging out of his coat's pocket, one of the ends almost brushing over the floor.

"Up to now it has been very exhaustive and boring. He's not talking. If he says anything at all he is sneering at us. Seems to be a real sociopath… or psychopath, the psychologist will arrive within the hour, I hope," Lestrade explained. 

"Who's in there with Sally?"

"Our police psychologist, only one available until the specialist arrives, who was called to Dover for another case last week."

"Psychopath," Sherlock diagnosed.

"Oh really, you have studied psychology while you were away?" Greg teased.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

"This is getting us nowhere, let me talk to him."

"No."

Before Sherlock could start to make a fuss, Lestrade dared to tug at his sleeve.

Sherlock looked at him with an irritated frown, ready to complain about the gesture.

"Meeting starts in five. They've got news. Come on, let's go."

Lestrade didn't let go, and it had the intended effect, it loosened the situation.

John smiled and Sherlock followed them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, writing/making up the case was some hard work, and now, that it is almost solved, Sherlock's issues will become more prominent.  
> The chapter is short, because I already updated my new story 'Pain Management 2' this week. I probably will update part one of that this week, too.  
> 


	82. Monday and Tuesday - Mycroft cares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made.

 

 

**Monday afternoon**

It turned out the meeting wasn't just a few detectives talking about the case. There were at least twenty people in the conference room, high ranking military men as well as royal military police and agents that clearly looked like Mycroft's as well as Lestrade's people.

Mycroft was attending, too, but one of his agents and one of Lestrade's men were leading the conversation.

"The bunker we found yesterday should have only been accessible with a military permission," the agent stated and John heard Sherlock growl silently next to him.

"It turned out the body in the house was Benjamin Miller, a retired military man. Worked in administration about fifteen years ago, that was also when information in the military files about the bunker ceased to exist," the agent continued, then gave over to a man in a military uniform, who continued.

"We assume Sgt Miller has taken over the bunker that happened to be in the backyard of his parent's estate. He must have acquired the keys and the files that documented its existence, since he had - at some point in his career - access to the keys. We checked and the military is no longer in possession of any keys to the facility at all. Only one document remained that showed it had been marked as inspected repeatedly and due to a security hazard forbidden to be entered. So no one ever wondered about it."

"Why did he retire this early?" Sherlock asked no one in particular.

"Miller suffered from psychological problems that made him paranoid," a man in uniform answered, his the name tag said _Captain Hobbs_.

"Obviously, it was him then, who furnished the bunker and converted it into a living space. Have you checked with his therapist if he was afraid of terror acts or a war?" Sherlock asked.

Several eyebrows went up and John had to look away, otherwise he would have grinned about it.

"We just found out he had a therapist an hour ago, but she died years ago in an accident. There are hints in the files that he was afraid of some kind of attack on Great Britain, and that those affected his work."

"So, Alexander only took over what was already there. Cause of death?" Sherlock jumped topics.

"Mrs Hooper will do the autopsy first thing tomorrow, you are free to join her," Lestrade offered and some more eyebrows were raised, "…but everything points to overdose or poisoning. Something that made him die sitting in the armchair," Lestrade explained.

"Is the father, Col. Marc Daniel Alexander, in any way linked to this?" Greg asked Brown, the royal military police representative.

"Miller and the Colonel were close friends twenty years ago. We assume that's how our suspect, Ian, must have met the man and knew of the bunker. We were able to speak to former colleagues and they told us the friendship suddenly broke up under odd circumstances."

"Oh," Sherlock made softly next to John, but all eyes in the room turned to him.

"Ideas, dear brother?" Mycroft said with a smirk.

"I found out earlier that the father was not too fond of his third child and removed many reminders of him from the house. I assumed the parents weren't getting along, or the child might be illegitimate. There were no pictures at all from after the mother's early death."

"How did you find that out? There's nothing about that in the documents?" Brown asked, but Mycroft raised his hands to stop him. John was amazed to see the man shut his mouth immediately.

"But you have a new theory, haven't you?" Mycroft asked.

"You should be able to make a guess yourself, brother mine," Sherlock spat.

"I could, but why stop you from enlightening us with your deductions?"

Sherlock huffed in annoyance, but continued, "When did this friendship between Miller and the father break up?"

The man consulted his notes, "Around the time the mother died, or shortly after it. You mean they might have had an affair?"

"That wouldn't explain why the man hated the child."

"Maybe Miller was the father," Mycroft's agent suggested.

"We can order a genetic test," Lestrade's forensics guy suggested.

"Unnecessary, he looks way too much like his father," Sherlock explained. "I assume the boy was in some way assaulted or molested or whatever by Miller and told his parents about it. But the mother was busy with being sick and the father busy with worrying about her being sick. So they didn't care, or blamed it on the child, or told him he was a liar, easiest way, happens all the time. Especially since he doesn't seem too fond of honesty."

"What makes you say that?" someone asked.

Sherlock directed a questioning gaze at Hobbs and Brown.

But the person who answered was one of Mycroft's computer specialists, "Mr Holmes seems to be right. We found out Ian was dishonourably discharged because he lied repeatedly and 'nicked' equipment."

"The vaccination guns?" Sherlock asked.

"No, those were decommissioned long before his time, but guess who signed the forms that documented that those were taken away to be demolished?" Hobbs asked.

"Miller," John and Sherlock guessed, almost simultaneously.

"Right."

"So, he was a chronic liar, maybe even as a child, and nobody believed him when he told the truth. The father probably just ignored what his son had told him. Or punished him with ignorance for his 'lies'… but somehow the friendship between the father and Miller ended nevertheless."

"Maybe he found out his son was not lying at all?" John suggested.

"Or he simply asked Miller what had happened between him and Ian and that already made them split up," Greg uttered.

"Possible, especially if the child was telling the truth," Mycroft stated. "Also possible that the father later felt guilty for punishing the child wrongly and he tried to protect him when he found out about his son's recent wrongdoing, because he had a bad conscience."

"So Ian killed Miller to get the bunker and revenge his horrible experiences."

"Probably," Sherlock agreed.

"And lived from his pension, the cheques were cashed," Hobbs explained.

"Yes, maybe Miller had shown the bunker to the young boy and later Ian remembered that it fit his needs. It is also possible he needed a place to stay or money after his discharge and blackmailed Miller to help him. Miller also knew how the military administration worked, which was exactly what - what was the name, Jan? - needed. He probably made him do it or teach him. We better ask him directly. When can I see him?" Sherlock finished his explanation.

"We'll talk about that later. Are there any more questions?" Mycroft asked.

They spoke about more details and looked at pictures from the bunker. The military men were eager to learn in detail what had happened and the meeting went on for another two hours.

Sherlock was getting more and more unnerved, until Greg decided to take him for a smoke. John followed.

When they returned the meeting had mostly resolved and the military personnel had left.

Mycroft told Sherlock he could watch but was not allowed to join the interrogation, which made the younger Holmes downright furious, so John dragged him home to prevent any riots between the brothers in public.

The good thing was Sherlock allowed John to take him home.

Initially John's reasoning seemed not welcome, but when John - in an unobserved moment - rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and looked him in the eyes, Sherlock followed him out of the room.

"Let's just go home."

Sherlock's shoulders sagged and the defeat made John wince, maybe it was a bad idea to not help him in the fight, but John was convinced it was necessary to make a retreat and bolster him up in private.

"Sherlock, I'm not suggesting you are wrong, or he is right or anything. I just don't think fighting with Mycroft is a good idea at the moment. We'll find another solution, talk to Greg later. This is getting us nowhere at the moment. He won't give in, you won't give in, since we know that already, the logical choice is to shorten this and leave. Besides, you are angrier at him for whatever has happened between the two of you at home… and this is not the way to solve it."

"Kind of lame," Sherlock hissed.

"Yes," John agreed. "Or maybe I just think he's not worth the effort."

This made Sherlock's lips twitch slightly and when John directed him to the exit he followed him outside and they hailed a cab.

John was well aware they needed to address what had unsettled Sherlock earlier but it was not first priority at the moment.

 

A few minutes later in the cab John used the situation to address another problem first, it was bugging him and he decided to just to ask, even though the atmosphere was already tense Sherlock had followed his lead a few moments before.

"Sherlock, you know what a trigger is, right? I mean in the sense of PTSD?"

"Yes of course. How would I have been able to try to evade yours otherwise?" Sherlock's tone was not as hostile as John had feared it would be.

"What? You _did_ that?"

"Hm," Sherlock frowned, obviously not eager to admit it, "After Baskerville… it made me… I didn't want to… It was not nice of me, wasn't it?"

"You mean… the lab? No. No, it wasn't."

"I just had kind of… general knowledge about the topic before I met you, I read a bit after you moved in… and then I read more later… when…"

"Wait, wait. You read books about PTSD?"

Sherlock hesitated, as if wondering if it was not nice to answer honestly.

"Yes?"

"Jesus, did _everyone_ I knew read books about PTSD?" John rolled his eyes, half astonished, half moved by the fact.

"How many people do you think you knew, were aware you were diagnosed with it?"

"Harry and you."

"Did Harry read a book?"

John chuckled in sarcasm, "I can't imagine she'd do something like that… but neither could I imagine _you_ would."

"I don't understand. Was it rude?"

"No, Sherlock probably not, it was nice I guess."

"Then why…?"

"I am just not… I can't… I don't know."

Instead of talking about Sherlock's problems they had drifted off into John's, but the doctor realised this was the right way to start this kind of topic.

"I don't understand the question, then."

"Never mind, Mary read some, too. Well... I didn't," John grinned to lighten the situation, although it didn't feel easy at all. "I guess it makes me feel exposed, but overall it is a nice thing to do. It shows care. Thank you."

When Sherlock looked no longer as if he had blundered again, John assumed it was okay. He had just bared another crucial factor of his PTSD, to show Sherlock he understood how awkward it was to talk about it, to bare one's soul. He hadn't planned it, it had just happened, but Sherlock needed to hear this once more.

The doctor decided not to return to the initial question and destroy the atmosphere, and for the next days he decided to insert brief things like this into their future conversations, just to create a sense of normality when it came to the process of talking about it, not intensely, just a bit at a time.

John made sure it was a relaxed evening, as it had been when they had lived together, watching the news, showing Sherlock the new blog entry he was about to publish, listening to his scandalised ranting about the choice of words, and eating pastries for dinner with him.

 

**Tuesday**

 

Tuesday morning John made an unwilling and grumpy Sherlock get up early to join Molly with the autopsy. The doctor was a bit worried because usually mummified corpses were high on the consultant's lists of interesting dead bodies but they apparently weren't this day. The couple dropped him off on their way to the surgery, by then he had barely spoken at all.

 

John's workday was not unusual, at least not until lunch break, which went quite different from what he had planned.

In order to get some fresh goods he left the medical practice and had just rounded the corner when a black limousine stopped next to him.

Mycroft, obviously.

The door opened and John saw the older Holmes in the back of the car, a fake smile on his face.

It was no use, so he entered and sat down next to the man.

"What is it that you don't want him to hear?"

"He needs treatment, John," Mycroft dropped the bombshell without introduction.

"Yes. Yes he does, but as I said before we'll do this at _his_ pace and with the tools _he_ approves."

"I don't think we can allow him to be his picky self with this. I was very patient for a very long time, but now I'm getting a bit anxious that he'll harm himself or someone else if he's not treated properly, soon."

"Mycroft, the main issue here - right now - is that _he_ needs to find out if he could benefit from treatment and which circumstances he needs for it to work. Which means learning about PTSD therapy and EMDR is the first step. Maybe he'll understand he needs therapy then by himself. _He_ needs to make the decision…"

"Good luck with that. Sherlock Holmes will never even start to think about it," Mycroft almost spat the words. 

"We made a lot of progress the past week, he told me about some of his problems and I could convince him to take some medication. That's a good start. If you are aware it is _Sherlock_ we're talking about here, you should know this alone is almost a wonder of the world."

"I am aware, but it's nevertheless too slow. He needs to acknowledge to himself how bad he really is and how dire in need of help."

"He's getting there. What do you want to do? Lock him in... in some kind of a mental institution? It won't work. You'll harm not only his trust in you, but his health and soul - more than you could ever imagine. He'd never forgive you for that."

"I'm well aware, but if this is what is needed to keep him alive and away from drugs then that's what I'll do."

"It won't. As I see it, any version of putting pressure on him would have exactly this effect. He knows very well about his issues, he's not stupid. And he has a remarkable level of control about it many people in his situation wouldn't have, because he's… Sherlock."

"Maybe it's not control but burying it deep. He's done it before, not in the healthiest way, I might add."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Never mind. Your point?" Mycroft sighed.

"Let him be himself and find his own way to deal with it. I'll keep a close eye on it, and keep him on track. Of course I plan to try to make him agree to some sort of therapy sooner or later, but he needs to get to the point where he wants it on his own, maybe with some gentle nudges or a bit of fond yelling on my part, but not from you and not with force or blackmail! That's essential."

"This is too risky. He needs to understand he can't work like this. I can't do what I did with more cases. This case… this was not really my area, I got involved in something that is not supposed to be done by me."

John suddenly realised Mycroft must have taken over quite a lot of the investigation in order to protect Sherlock, to keep him safe.

"Keeping him away from things will only make him worse," John said.

"Well, involving him made him worse, too."

"It confronted him with things that must have been difficult, yes. But on the other hand, if he hadn't experienced it, neither he nor me would have a clue what was wrong. It certainly wasn't a good way to explore this, but as I know Sherlock, it was the only one."

"So what do you suggest, doctor?" Mycroft said it in a tone, that was clearly meant to question his expertise in this matter.

"I suggest we give him cases we deem safe, then."

"And you think that will work?" Mycroft said with pity.

"To a certain degree, and if you and Lestrade work with me here. He needs to know he's not _damaged_. And he needs to know he can do the work, because it is what might be keeping him alive at the moment. Do not take that away, it might really break him," John stated.

But Mycroft seemed to have already understood something else, because he said, "…and not take away _you_ , because you do the same?"

"Well, yes. That's possible," John stymied, afraid it might be used against him, otherwise, and added, "Maybe it's even mutual, maybe we both need each other."

"Oh, he's getting on with Mary then?"

"Better than I had hoped, in fact."

Mycroft looked as if he hadn't expected that.

"Then why does she stay at home?"

"She needs to do things. Your brother was not happy about it in the beginning. She argued we need to work on Sherlock's issues in private. She's giving us space."

Another thing the older Holmes obviously hadn't seen or had misinterpreted.

"So it's all domestic bliss at 221b?"

John ignored the question, mainly because of the ironic inflexion.

"Just… let's go on as it is. He is getting better; it takes time, which is normal! Maybe it takes a bit longer because he's Sherlock, but this is part of the process, just let it evolve."

The car stopped at a sign of Mycroft's hand and John understood it was his cue to get out.

"Good day, John," Mycroft said in a frosty tone.

John felt this conversation had been as fruitless as the previous ones about the same topic.

How often would they have this discussion in the future?

The doctor hoped Mycroft would be patient for another few weeks.

He found himself in front of the bakery and hurried to do his shopping.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I wrote this chapter months ago and am really surprised and glad it fits Mycroft's worry about Sherlock being traumatised (again). Trying to take care of his brother and also being all clamped up about it, fearing to trigger the redbeard-issues or making them resurface.   
> My PTSD books as well as my own experience says that trauma in early life or repeated trauma can bring forward PTSD, which also fits my story.  
> I started writing a collection of missing scenes from S4, if you'd like to check them out. Trauma is one of the topics I try to address there, too.


	83. Tuesday Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock reveals some details.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not my characters as usual.

 

 

John knew that if he'd try to start a conversation with Sherlock beginning with 'we need to talk' it would get him nowhere, so he didn't.

Instead, when he came home in the early afternoon, he sat down on the kitchen table, where Sherlock was analysing samples from the mummified body.

The consultant was wearing his dark red dressing gown, pyjama pants and another inside out t-shirt. John had made tea an put his laptop down on the corner of the table, carefully moving a few beakers out of the way, putting them down in the exact same order they had been just a feet to the right. Sherlock traced where John put them minutely but said nothing.

They worked silently side by side for almost half an hour.

"Found something yet?" John finally started a conversation when Sherlock had visibly relaxed. Of course the detective had noticed John was staying close for a reason.

"Nothing new."

"News about the interrogation?"

"Still not talking."

"Did the mummified man's smell cause you any trouble?"

This made Sherlock freeze for a moment but then he continued his work and shook his head.

"What smells _do_ cause you the most trouble, lately?" John asked carefully.

"Nothing is causing me trouble."

"Not good, Sherlock."

"Worth a try," Sherlock said dryly but at least with a tint of mischief in his voice.

John realised it was not a close door at least, "So, what do we need to evade?"

"Evade?"

"You read a book about PTSD, so you know what a _trigger_ is, how it works, and what happens if someone is triggered?"

"'course," Sherlock mumbled, obviously at some level aware where John was heading but still not closing the door.

"And?" John poked gently, shoving the cup of tea in Sherlock's direction.

"Err... Blood, especially in combination with sweat and musty cellars," the detective explained in a low voice, while his gaze remained fixed on his experiments, "There might be more, but those are the strongest,"

John's internal jaw dropped, they were starting to 'talk' weren't they?

"Can you briefly tell me why those are difficult?"

After another moment of hesitation Sherlock explained while he continued his work. He changed the slides, made notes, but he answered the questions.

Although his tone was flat and often hesitating, he told John willingly about the memories that had recently come back to him, the ones about his time in the empty plant with a homeless man.

John had not expected him to just give in to the request and describe what had happened, had expected Sherlock would resist more, but after all the detective had finally decided to work with him. John relaxed a bit, too, seeing it as another sign the consultant was actively participating in his efforts.

Though Sherlock's depictions were superficial and John was sure a bit belittled, when the detective described how he had found his saviour in a pool of blood and how the smell of blood was linked to the overwhelming feeling of loss and guilt, his hands were slightly trembling.

Of course Sherlock tried to hide it by keeping them busy.

John felt a bit shaky about the things he learned himself.

Although Sherlock didn't say it directly, but John understood that the smell of the blood had connected with experiencing John's desperation and agony from directly after the fall, as well as with the worst memories form his 'hiatus', simply because it was present at loads of bad situations, and every time he was confronted with it, it had added to the problem.

The doctor assumed the smell-triggers were all Sherlock were aware of, yet. Because those where what he had stumbled into already, and then John realised there might be a whole lot more in the future they could be confronted with.

He himself had needed months to figure out what triggered him, it was always a bad surprise.

At least most of his own triggers were connected to loud explosions, the smell of the desert, the feeling of sand everywhere, and somewhere from when he had watched comrades die. But the really bad and intense triggers that sometimes caused major flashbacks were several things that acutely reminded him of the moments when he felt he was bleeding out and in horrible pain, the sensations that were closely connected to the moments when he had experienced his approaching death.

John gulped down his own problems when their conversation came to a point where they talked about those and he told Sherlock about these triggers and what happened when he was confronted with them, what it meant to him.

At first Sherlock denied he had ever faced a situation where he was sure he was about to die, but when John gently poked a bit it turned out there had been in fact several occasions when Sherlock had doubted he'd survive.

John was still surprised that Sherlock was suddenly so willing to talk about it and wondered if Mycroft had put some truth serum into his flatmate's coffee or blackmailed him somehow.

It felt strange to see Sherlock so unguarded and open.

But overall this was a threat to all that the consultant was, to his mind - his innermost core - the most important thing he possessed.

He must have finally accepted that he was unable to handle this on his own and was granting John access therefore, it was an immense proof of trust. John couldn't help but feel moved by it once more.

How he had wished in the past weeks Sherlock would open up to him, and now he finally did. 

After some time Sherlock did become agitated somehow, it was subtle but John's descriptions of his own issues seemed to cause some kind of stress. The doctor detected the moment it became suddenly too much for his friend and he stirred back into safer grounds.

"Mate, why did you drop the weapon?" he changed topics.

"Isn't it obvious?... I needed to make sure I wouldn't shoot him," Sherlock knew immediately what he meant.

"Shit! Why would you do that?"

"To spare Lestrade and Mycroft a whole week of unnecessary paperwork," Sherlock regained his usual composure.

John rolled his eyes, "Nonsense. Honestly, why?"

"It would have been over immediately."

"What? Hang on. Did you risk your life because you wanted an adrenaline kick?"

"No…"

"Sherlock!"

"No! Causing a bloodshed would have helped no one. If I had shot him he would have gotten out of this all too fast," he paused and narrowed his eyes, "Uhhh, well, maybe I wanted to use some of my hand to hand fighting abilities, to show off, you know. Bit of practice, you know."

The doctor first frowned, then narrowed his eyes.

"You see, it was a win-win decision. He's alive, he can face court, I had a bit of exercise…" Sherlock sounded put on easy. He was finally fully concentrated on John, his work abandoned.

"Bloodshed…" John murmured, not buying it.

"What?"

"I see."

"What?" Sherlock seemed to be irritated by John's sudden kind and gentle muttering.

"Well, you did the right thing. I just wanted to know why. It's fine."

"Fine?" Sherlock spat suddenly, disgust in his voice.

"I didn't mean it like that. Don't get pissed off."

With a frown Sherlock turned back to his microscope.

John had read the files Mycroft had about his time away, but sooner or later he'd want to hear Sherlock's own perception of the events, because that was all that was relevant for trauma development.

Besides, the files were quite superficial and lacked a great deal of facts, so much John had found out already. Only a quarter of what had actually happened seemed to have made it into the documents.

"Can you tell me a bit more about that homeless man?" he returned to the former topic carefully.

A cold and distanced but minute elaboration of all interactions Sherlock had with the man followed, but when he finished John was hit by sudden understanding.

"Sherlock, you are… grieving."

 

The comment hit Sherlock like a bolt.

He had answered every question John had thrown at him. His friend deserved honesty and he had struggled through all the answers, but this was a bit out of… ? Reason?

"What? That's ridiculous."

"How many people have died for or because of you? I mean _really_ died?"

Sherlock didn't answer, he couldn't. Now, for the first time he started thinking about how to end the conversation without making John feel shut out. He had promised not to do it and he'd do his best to try.

"This man died because of you, or for you… for helping you – is that what you think?"

Sherlock frowned, searching his mind for others who had suffered the same fate.

Was John right?

No one had died for him.

Of course people had died on their jobs when working his him, but the only ones that died because of him were the deaths Moriarty had caused. Or self defence, or… protecting John… and destroying Moriarty's web.

One thing he remembered vividly was the sick feeling when the old woman had been blown up while she was on the phone with him... and how odd and comforting it had been that John grabbed the back of his chair, it was the only thing he remembered besides the nausea and that the moment seemed to last hours.

It had affected him, a lot… and not only that event.

Was he denying the facts?

Denying he was suffering from those memories?

He needed to find out.

He went after the memories, to look at each and every one separately to find out.

After some time, with a slight mental jerk, he realised distantly that John was talking to him, though he couldn't make out the words. He had become lost in the depth of his thoughts, hunting the memories.

This had happened before, on several occasions in the past weeks, although he wasn't in his Mind Palace.

It was unsettling, his mind shutting out reality and speech like that. But now that he thought about it, he was also no longer aware of his eyesight, too.

That had also happened before, he had been wandering through bad memories so deep that he had to be dragged out of them.

But this time, he didn't even try to answer, this was more important. He needed to go after those thoughts, figure it out, find the sources and eliminate it.

He _had_ been focussed on bad memories or had been dragged into them by things like a smell…

On every single occasion his mind had shut out external input when it happened.

No, his consciousness had been _hauled_ into a dark version of rusty caves of the mind, had been dragged along.

He had struggled against it, but the force that drew him in was stronger.

It was almost impossible to stay out of these reminders of bad events. It felt as if it was not his mind space, but a cruel version of memory storage that made him witness the violence repeatedly, like a broken record.

It felt foreign and strangely disconnected.

Analysing it was bringing him dangerously close to entering one of those dark chambers of reminiscences once more, he felt the force that tried to suck him in.

But the moment he became aware of that, it had already happened.

His body was suddenly gone, out of reach. He was no longer sure about where he was and what was really happening. Time was gone, reality was gone, life was gone.

For the first time he experienced the process in detail, suddenly aware this had happened before... repeatedly.

Like being trapped in a bad dream - half aware it must be a dream - scurrile and…

He _hurt_.

For god's sake, he had been sucked into it again, fully aware and not able to prevent it!

The pain had been there before, too.

The intense ugliness of his surroundings threatened to make him sick and the horrifying pressure made him realise panic was lurking nearby, ready to succumb him any moment.

His back hurt.

And there it was, the memory of the cellar... it invaded his thoughts like an irresistible force.

Like needles being shoved into his brain.

He _needed_ to get out!

But although he tried to gather strength to fight and escape this alternate reality of horror, he was fully aware it must be futile.

The viciousness prevented mental movement.

Something soft and gentle surprised him when it settled down on the back of his neck, he flinched because of the intense sensation.

It was warm and he felt suddenly heavy and unable to carry this burden any longer.

He exhaled loudly through his open mouth, glad his body was back.

But he hurt everywhere.

The contrast between the agony and the soft touch was so shocking he had to blink away the wetness of pain.

"Sherlock?"

John was next to him, very close. His warmth and his smell grounded him.

"Hey? What's going on?"

He tried to calm down, slow down his heaving respiration.

"I'm sorry," John said.

What was he sorry for?

"I didn't mean to… Do you know what just happened?"

Sherlock shook his head, still fighting the feelings that had just bombarded him with unknown horror.

"Were you aware where you are?"

He shook his head once more.

"Did it feel as if you were trapped in your memories?"

He said nothing, not sure if his voice would be steady.

Shame tinted his perception.

The kitchen felt bleak and foreign.

"You probably dissociated. Thinking about things that are connected with the trauma, probably caused you to retreat into your own mind. It's kind of a protection mechanism."

"No… Maybe."

"What then, what happened?"

"I don't know. Tried to analyse it, remember it."

"Flashback then? You had one of those at the hospital, too, right?"

"That... Yes, hospital. Smell of blood, brought me back to the cellar… When I analysed how the memories affected me they drew me in," Sherlock was aware of his stammering, but didn't care, "Tried to get out, tried to retreat. I was not inside the memories itself, not when I… lost the connection."

"Alright. When that happens, you feel kind of detached, from physical and emotional experience, do you? It's as if your mind has retreated into a safe corner of your awareness. That's called dissociation."

John was probably right, he had felt uncoupled from reality.

He nodded.

"Maybe first the one and then the other. It started like… when I tried to remember, and then I… retreated."

"Okay. I think we should better leave it there for now."

"No. Ask what you need and get it over with."

"Sherlock, there is no _getting over with it_ in one go. This is a slow process, you are welcome to tell me things, please do. But this will take time and care. Don't force it and don't do it because you feel urged, by me or anyone else."  

"I left you and it made me miserable," Sherlock had said it before he was really aware he had even thought it, he was surprised by it himself.

But the astonishment that was written on John's face was even worse, because he couldn't place it.

"Hamburg," he suddenly remembered one long day in the harbour town, where he had first experienced what he'd identify as a flashback in hindsight, being thrown back into sinister memories.

"What does that mean? What happened there?"

Sherlock tried to describe what little he remembered of that awful night.

 

_A posh hotel room in Hamburg's Speicherstadt._

_He was dizzy and sick with worry._

_The imaginary John in his head walked up and down the room and he listening to that John's steps._

_The sounds became a lifeline when he started to hallucinate – at least back then he though what was happening fitted that term best._

_He had intended to sleep, but ended up leaned against the mattress, sitting upright on the floor, too exhausted to undress or climb onto the wooden bed._

_It was like a bad trip, like a fever dream that had hit him without a warning. He didn't know how it started, just that he had been exhausted and tired and found himself sitting on the carpet._

_Then it gathered momentum and the panic rose._

_The only thing that had kept him sane were John's steps._

_He must have fallen asleep on the floor, because a bit later he woke from another devastating nightmare - or memory._

_His mind-palace-doctor was there and had tried to comfort him, he was almost delirious with… something._

_Later he dragged all the blankets over to the large floor-to-ceiling-windows that overlooked the waterways of the dull grey and red brick town._

_At some point he collapsed on the heap of expensive softness, his face touching the glass, and… he fought the aftermath of the first flashback he ever had, not understanding what was happening._

_The need to be home with John, it was so overwhelming that he lost his grip on reality for quite some time._

_Sometime during the night his body temperature rose and he felt feverish, he had touched the glass and enjoyed its coldness._

_In that state of panic and anguish imaginary John entered his delirious mind and spoken to him, helped him through the night._

 

"Thank you. You… kept me from…," Sherlock had elaborated surprisingly honest what he remembered.

"Right, then. You _are_ aware I wasn't really there, aren't you?"

"No. Yes… in a way you were."

John smiled at him, but Sherlock saw the hidden worry. The warm hand on his nape remained and Sherlock closed his eyes to relish that at this very moment it was really there and not imagined, it was real and heavy and…

"What else came back to you in the past days?" John gently continued and Sherlock was glad he actually _asked_ , because he knew he wouldn't have the strength to keep this conversation going by himself, wouldn't have known how to do it, how to start, how to go on. But when John was leading it poured out of him.

He told John whatever the other man wanted to know, and three hours later, when he felt his temperature rose once more from the stress of the conversation, John stood up.

"God, we need to sleep…"

Unceremoniously John dragged him to bed, and he just gave in.

It was John.

And the middle of the night apparently.

He could trust John.

Also, he was far too tired to decide on his own anyway.

 

John watched Sherlock fall asleep as soon as he had curled onto the heap of blankets on the floor. At least this riddle was solved, it was kind of a strong image now, that he knew Sherlock had lain alone on a floor, grieving, and missing him so desperately he had summoned a virtual version of him.

As so often before what Sherlock had revealed about his time on the hunt affected John strongly. He sat down next to the sleeping figure, leaned against the wall, at almost the same position where Sherlock had collapsed some days ago.

He was upset, too, he knew, but it was good that things were getting into the light, as bad as the process was.

When would this stop to hurt?

When Sherlock winced silently in his sleep a few moments later, he rested a hand on his friend's shoulder and quietly spoke to him.

It was nonsense, but talking helped.

Just show presence, as his virtual counterpart had done. John shook his head, only Sherlock could come up with a virtual version of him to cope.

Today they had made huge steps forward. John had not dared to hope that Sherlock would tell him all these things. He was positively surprised and it was a good sign, he was glad he had vindicated Sherlock's way of doing this in front of Mycroft today.

John spent another night in Sherlock's room, not wanting to leave him alone, though he moved onto the bed later.

Before he fell asleep he remembered that the conversation had started with the question how to evade triggers.

That was one thing they hadn't actually talked about.

He remembered the mind palace session when they had used sage leaves to keep Sherlock grounded.

The next step would be to think of real-life coping mechanisms.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One thing about the trial in Hamburg that was depicted in the mini-episode:  
> I know very little about formalities of German administration of justice, but: usually a court decision is made either by one or three judges (for big/difficult court cases) as well as two more persons of the law who could maybe described as 'judges who work in a honorary capacity for a term of five years'.  
> My point is: it is not done by an 'unprofessional' jury like in the US or by a large number of jurors who then vote. In Germany the judges decide.
> 
>  
> 
> Maybe I said this before but I have started a new hurt/comfort series called Pain Management, just in case someone is interested.


	84. Wednesday - Interference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets a shiner and Mycroft sees the need to interfere, which backfires.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made.

 

 

Sherlock went to Scotland Yard the next morning, invited by Lestrade, who had hinted that he considered to allow the consultant to join him in the interrogation room.

Alexander still hadn't talked and Scotland Yard seemed to be willing to let Sherlock try, before Mycroft's man could take things out of their hands.

 

In the early afternoon John was surprised when he went into his office.

He had expected his next patient to wait for him but was confronted with the detective and Lestrade.

Sherlock had a shiner and they both looked dishevelled.

"Sorry, John, but I didn't want to leave him alone at Baker Street. He's a bit agitated."

"I'm not agitated, and don't talk about me as if I'm not in the room," Sherlock yelled.

John flinched about the sudden outburst and heard mumbling in the hallway outside.

"All right, I can see that, mate. Sit down," John said with raised eyebrows.

"Our consultant here worked hard and has finally been able to get at a reaction out of the perpetrator," Lestrade's voice was dripping with sarcasm, "He managed to provoke him by a rude questioning style and uttering a theory about how the mother's death had affected Alexander. The downside was that the intensity of the interview stressed our suspect and it resulted in a black eye, two to be more precise."

The doctor stared at Sherlock whose exaggerated fake wide grin made John raise his eyebrows once more, but this time in shock.

"Ian punched him," Lestrade continued, "I was standing only four feet away, but it happened too fast. I had no bloody chance to interfere. To my utter surprise Sherlock punched the man back, with the same speed. It was over before I had time to understand what was happening."

When John asked for details Greg hinted bluntly that it seemed Sherlock had not only done it in self defence, but with a bit more force than necessary to simply incapacitate the man. Sherlock refused to accept that Greg suggested he was _angry_.

He also didn't sit down, instead ran up and down John's office, his whole posture screamed angry.

"He started!" Sherlock grouched.

"Oh Christ! You shouldn't have punched him back! What's gotten into you? This isn't usually like you… attacking physically!" Greg responded.

After a superficial report the DI explained he needed to take care of the mess Sherlock had caused and headed for the door.

When the consultant tried to follow him and leave with him, John gently held him back, which annoyed his friend once more, more yelling was the result.

"Sherlock, I swear if you don't calm down and tell me what happened in detail, I'll give you a second shiner," John gave him a false smile in return, not really meaning it, but he was sure his friend knew that.

Greg shut the door after himself.

The doctor was well aware that at times Sherlock was accused of being angry when he wasn't. Sometimes he seemed to be not in control of how his agitation looked on the outside. He might shout or sound as if in pissy mood although he wasn't.

On other occasions his fury was well-orchestrated for case-solving purposes.

But at the moment he was definitely agitated, the only thing was that Sherlock didn't get angry, in the sense of being in rage, not like normal people did, at least.

On the other hand John knew that many patients with PTSD were facing anger management issues and could get quiet upset and aggressive.

But Sherlock never acted on impulse, always pondered about how to proceed. The fact that after being triggered or having a flashback he reacted mostly by withdrawing into himself than with aggression made John sure it wasn't the main factor.

He needed to figure this out.

"What is putting additional strain on you _right now_?" John tried a random shot.

"Alexander is…"

"No, _think!_ Why are you still like this? Right _now?_ "

The atmosphere was quite tense for a moment none of them spoke; Sherlock was just staring at the linoleum.

"What is keeping you from coming off that frustration? It happened almost an hour ago."

Well aware that adrenaline and Sherlock's level of frustration would need time to ebb he also knew this should be over by now, or at least in the process of fading.

Then Sherlock's shoulders sagged and he let himself fall into a chair. Which was kind of a direct answer if one knew Sherlock good enough. He must have realised what amplified his stress or held up the level he had experienced with the perpetrator.

"Disinfectant."

John sat down too, and with his office chair rolled closer to inspect his friend's black eye.

"Can I touch you or will it make things worse?"

Sherlock frowned, then gave a stiff nod, which didn't really answer John's question. He assumed it was a yes to both but he was allowed to. To be sure though, he moved slowly to give Sherlock the chance to move away.

"You mean smelling them in here, right?"

Sherlock allowed him to tilt his head and look at the damage, he nodded when John lifted his chin.

The doctor sighed and rolled back to his desk, where he activated the intercom.

"Mary, I need an ice pack and a cup of sweet tea for Sherlock."

"On my way," she answered.

"Oh, and can you please air the break room and inform everyone it is out of order for the rest of the shift?... and take the coffeemaker out into the storage room."

Now Sherlock was the one who sighed and lowered his head in defeat. 

 

Half an hour later the doctor went to check on his friend, expecting him to sit in the silence of the break room and work on the laptop John had provided.

But instead, John had to unlock the door and when he entered Sherlock seemed to be sleeping on a gurney that had been parked there temporarily a few days ago.

He was in his coat and with his back to the door.

The clutter that had been on the gurney before – handbags, boxed supplies and a few jackets – had been transferred to the large table in the centre of the room. Except Mary's soft jacket, which was bundled into a pillow.*

As silent as possible John stepped over and diagnosed Sherlock's state as truly deeply asleep. He left him be and locked the door again, Sherlock could open it from the inside at any time.

 

Four hours later the shift ended and they decided to take John's car to Baker Street.

"So, what were the important things that drove Alexander?" Mary asked while driving, she was not up to date about the case.

"This morning I found out, that the fibres Molly and I found on the male victim match the carpet from the bunker," Sherlock explained, "He must have been the first one who was kept in there, which provides us with a time frame for when Alexander started to change his strategy and put more planning and effort into the details."

"Oh, interesting," Mary encouraged him to continue.

"Alexander confirmed…"

"Wait, didn't Lestrade say he wasn't talking?"

"Well, he was kind of belligerent after we exchanged… physical contact. Which led to the exchange of quite a load of facts and… he implicated himself quite thoroughly."

"Oh," John said from the front passenger seat and looked over his shoulder at Sherlock.

"From what I observed today I deduce that he likes - and has always liked - to order others around. Prefers the company of inferior people. But due to his personality he doesn't find many people who are willing to do so, consciously or unconsciously."

Mary laughed, "Who _would_ be willing, even if the personality was nice?"

"Don't underestimate the ability of sociopaths to manipulate people to do what they want, to use them."

"Sounds as if your sociopath is pretty unsuccessful at being a sociopath," she smiled into the rear view mirror at him.

"Apparently, yes," now Sherlock giggled, "His looks must have added to that. His grooming is dreadful. He must have realised it early, that he wasn't getting what he wanted, I mean,  and therefore went for a job that had 'commanding others' in it's very description. He's definitely not stupid, quite the opposite, but too narcissistic to climb up the ladder high enough before he was thrown out to prevent it from happening. Tried to speed up his advancement by lying, but he was caught. Later tried again by stealing things and blaming others, collecting fame for denouncing those that were in his way. Just that it went wrong and _he_ was found out instead."

"Tough luck."

"Although the man has issues with being alone, it was surely not the answer to the question why he murdered his victims, at least I refuse to believe it is that easy," Sherlock stated.

"Since no one wanted to spend time with him he forced people to do so," John summed it up. He agreed to the idea that it might have been one of the motives, but also doubted it was that simple.

Then Sherlock elaborated in more detail what had happened during the day. How the psychologist, who had been present during the interviews, had been very annoying, even more than Anderson used to be. The man seemed clueless before Sherlock had changed the approach of the interview.

And after it, he was eager to confirm almost every other theory the consultant had considered out loud. Which - to Sherlock - seemed as if he was trying to toady to him. Sherlock didn't like people just agreeing with him without the proper understanding. It resulted in insults from Sherlock and yelling from the psychologist. That was when Lestrade had taken action and carted the consultant to the surgery.

So Sherlock had been cut short, he had wanted to return to the interview and dig deeper, to find out more about the sinister reasons behind it all but was finally agitated because Lestrade didn't allow it.

 

It was cold in the living room when they arrived home so John started a fire.

Sherlock sat down in his armchair, still in his coat. He lifted his feet up, at least he had removed his shoes before doing so.

A phone rang, and when it turned out to be Mary's, she retreated to the Watson's upstairs room to take the call.

Since it all seemed a bit more relaxed now, John took his chance and asked his semi-flatmate what on his mind.

"So, case solved. I guess Scotland Yard will do the rest and the paper work. Well done…" he praised.

"It is not solved until we understand why he did it," Sherlock spit.

"Not for you, but for anyone else. You don't need to understand everything about his motives. Just try to be happy about it as it is. You will find out more later. It's okay..."

When there was no reaction he continued, "…except the punch of course. What made you so agitated? Lestrade said he had never seen you like this."

"He's wrong. He has."

"What?"

His friend was silent for a long time, his posture still screamed tension, he still looked agitated.

"Did something trigger you?" John finally asked when he received no answer.

"No."

"What happened, then?"

"I don't know."

"You're not the type who gets angry like this, so what happened? What did you react to?"

"I didn't... I don't know."

"Let me help, Sherlock."

"It won't happen again," Sherlock was clearly pissed off about himself and about being bugged with it.

A moment later they heard a brief knock at the door and Mycroft entered, they both hadn't heard him arrive.

"I think you should explain it to us, dear brother," Mycroft said without a greeting, "Because I need to see proof that you haven't gone insane. What you did was quite stupid. But you're running away from your problems, aren't you?"

"Please, Mycroft we're working on this. It's not true and not encouraging," John addressed the older Holmes.

"To my disappointment I have to admit that today's events don't show that he's getting better in the slightest."

"He's working on it," John said.

"I don't see it," Mycroft ridiculed his brother's efforts.

"Take care of your own business, Mycroft," Sherlock finally stated, stood up, put some more wood in the fire and sat down at the dinner table, demonstratively ignoring his brother.

"And I can speak for myself, thank you, John," he added, his tone was everything but friendly.

John's shoulders sagged in frustration, Mycroft was making it worse again.

"You _need_ professional help, _this_ is not getting better by _itself_."

Sherlock pretended not to hear him, plugging in his laptop.

Wide eyed, John's shook his head to signal Mycroft to not continue, but it was only answered with a frown.

"I can provide a list of excellent therapists, all highly recommended by agents with 'battle fatigue'."

John sighed, fearing Mycroft was destroying the fundament he had built during the past weeks, which he considered still a bit brittle.

If Mycroft was watching the flat, he should know they were making progress. So what was this about?

"You need help, Sherlock. You're behaving erratic and this is not good, neither for you nor for John."

"Don't you dare to use _me_ as an argument in this," the doctor was starting to get off now, "I'm perfectly aware of the situation and _this_ is not helping. Let me handle this."

"You're not able to handle this, _doctor_ ," Mycroft stated.

So that was the reason?

The fact that Sherlock - for once - couldn't hold back his distress had caused this?

Did Mycroft also think John was not able to handle his friend because he was too bad himself?

"You're misinterpreting the situation, brother dear," Sherlock sneered.

"Really? I think you need to allow somebody to help, and that it would be a gesture of friendship to _not_ unload all this on John's shoulders. Don't flush your goldfishes with this, it will do you no good."

John didn't get the remark but was quite alarmed when Sherlock literally exploded, stood up so fast and with so much force that he knocked over the chair.

"Don't you dare to behave to him like that!" he yelled.

"Or what? Oh, getting agitated again, aren't we? Not wise," Mycroft said coldly.

Sherlock's face froze, and a moment later forcibly relaxed.

"Piss off, Mycroft," Sherlock then said in a totally neutral tone, turned away and headed to his room.

"Running away, as ever."

Sherlock just banged his door shut.

John had closed his eyes in frustration.

"Mycroft, you're ruining everything I gained during the past weeks, he's starting to open up. Don't do this."

"I'm afraid your efforts are far from being enough and you need to take care of yourself and your wife. He needs professional help and therefore - as you said before - he needs to understand that he requires it."

"We're getting there."

"I doubt he'll survive long enough to get there at this rate."

"Whatever I'm doing wrong according to you, do you really believe _this_ will help? This does the opposite!" John was the one getting angry now.

"I only have my bother's well being in mind."

"I know, but this is not the way."

"He needs to understand how bad he really is."

"He knows."

"Since he can't work like this, he _will_ do something stupid sooner or later."

"We know."

"The way he behaved in the past days is quite unusual and I think we need to figure out what is causing his agitation, as soon as possible."

"I'm aware there are _some_ psychologists who suggest confrontation, but I'm not fond of that idea, neither was my therapist. As far as I know patients are better with a careful and fond handling of their issues… besides, those are called 'triggers'. I did my bouts of therapy on PTSD and…"

"Which was not really helpful, wasn't it? If I remember correctly your problems only started to resolve when you found what you needed."

John closed his eyes once more and leaned his head back, trying to get his frustration under control.

When he heard receding footsteps he opened them hastily.

The room was empty except him, Mycroft was heading down the hall and a second later opened the door to Sherlock's room.

Cursing, the doctor hurried after the older Holmes.

Sherlock seemed quite startled about the intrusion; he looked up at them, eyes wide in surprise. He had obviously expected his privacy would be respected.

"What is this?" Mycroft asked and pointed at something in his brother's hand.

Without waiting for a reply he stepped forward and reached for his brother's wrist, holding onto it, and thereby kept Sherlock from moving away.

"What are you doing, Sherlock?"

The room was dimly lit so John couldn't really see what it was.

"Leave!" the consultant insisted.

"I won't! Tell me why you have a bowl of blood on your windowsill."

Sherlock didn't react but when John stepped closer he saw the small bowl.

"This is _not_ healthy! You need help!"

"I am fine!"

"Mycroft, don't force him to speak about it. You will hurt him!" John tried to interfere in what had turned into more than brothers quarrelling.

"Obviously, you're lying, and you know how allergic I am to that," to underline his point Mycroft raised both their hands with the small vessel towards their faces.

"If this is _not_ a trigger, what is it?" he urged his younger sibling.

Sherlock turned his face away an inch, but then noticeably forced himself not to move away any further.

"Experiment," the emphasis of the consonants became more pronounced.

"Yes, of course. Mind if I do an experiment of my own?"

The older Holmes lifted the thing even higher, still not letting go of Sherlock's arm.

"Stop it," Sherlock hissed between clenched teeth.

"No."

Then suddenly Sherlock stopped resisting and - with a hard and forced expression on his face - breathed in.

John froze.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This is an homage to the scene that took place in the 1980th Sherlock Holmes TV Show. Holmes falls asleep in Watson's surgery, on a gurney, shortly after his return from the dead.  
> This takes place shortly after Watson fainted a bit earlier after Holmes revealed his identity.


	85. Wednesday - Interference 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft interferes and the result is a lot of distress for everyone involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made.  
> I am really glad Mr. Moffat and Mr. Gatiss created and own them, and that they made this terrific show. Thank you so much!   
> .  
> Sorry this took so long, but I was kind of not happy with this chapter, so I ended up rewriting most parts of it. Then I trashed it because it was awful. The third version was awful, too and then I was incapacitated for several days. So this is the fourth. It is still very hard for me to write 'comfort' and I'm rather insecure about it.

 

Mycroft and Sherlock stood close to each other and the older Holmes held the small bowl in front of Sherlock's face.

John didn't move, afraid of what reaction the smell might provoke.

"Why are you confronting yourself with this?" Mycroft wanted to know. "What happens when you experience it?"

Sherlock kept quiet.

"Mycroft! Stop this!" John stepped closer, realising the situation would escalate soon, "Shit, is that your blood?" he then addressed his friend.

"Yes," Sherlock pressed out, his tone had been quite stubborn, but now John heard the first wavering.

"Is it about the colour?" Mycroft continued to question him, his tone light and teasing.

"No."

"Is it a positive reminder of a reached goal?"

It was obvious the older man was doing this not because he didn't know the answer, but because he wanted to provoke a reaction or hear an admission of defeat.

Sherlock struggled, carefully trying to wind out of Mycroft's grip.

Helplessly, John watched, not knowing what to do. He was afraid to stir up the red liquid and release even more of the triggering smell.

"Let me go!" Sherlock hissed.

"Not until you tell me what this is about," Mycroft said in a serious voice.

"It doesn't concern you. We can stand here all day if you have nothing to do, I don't mind."

"Fine. Well, maybe I need to take a break in about three hours, calling the secret service, but until then, no," Mycroft kept a neutral facial expression, trying to sound easy.

"This is ridiculous," Sherlock spit, but did no longer try to wind out of his brother's grip, which surprised John even more than anything else about the whole bizarre situation.

Was Sherlock trying to prove something here?

"It is," the older Holmes agreed.

"Mycroft, please stop this," John requested once more in a strong voice.

"No. I'm sorry but if he doesn't tell me, I need to figure this out on my own. Apologies for the inconvenience."

Sherlock just stared at his brother, now something else was mixing into his stressed expression. Which meant he was well aware of what was happening, and was trying to fool his sibling.

Mycroft kept the shallow bowl near their faces, inspecting it in the dim light.

"You mixed in an anticoagulant?"

"Yyess," Sherlock pressed out.

The doctor saw more signs of stress coming up, a clenched jaw, shallow breathing, pallor.

"What for?" Mycroft remained his usual uninterested self.

"Less… messy."

John was well aware of Sherlock's distress, as was Mycroft. The first tiny peals of sweat were forming on Sherlock's forehead and his gaze had become somewhat fixed.

John frantically tried to figure out a way how to dissolve the situation.

Then he suddenly realised why Sherlock was keeping a bowl with blood on his windowsill, his jaw kind of dropped.

Sherlock was confronting himself with the smell trying to numb the intense reaction it caused.

"Shit," he mumbled, but was completely ignored by the two brothers.

"Is it important that it's human blood?" the older Holmes asked in a false sweet tone that made John want to punch him. He understood Mycroft was trying to prove the same thing he had just realised.

There was no answer, Sherlock hesitated but his breathing was getting faster.

Planning to carefully take the bowl out of their hands and stop this, John moved closer. But before he could reach for it, without a warning, Sherlock swayed, his overstressed nerves taking a toll on his body.

Reflexively the detective reached for the nearest thing to stabilise himself, which happened to be his brother's shoulder.

The movements disturbed the bowl and the red liquid spilled over the side of Sherlock's face, his shoulder and chest, and also over the front of Mycroft's suit jacket, as wells as John's sleeve and hand.

The amount of blood in the bowl was far more than John had expected.

Sherlock sucked in a loud breath that sounded horrified, then he sagged downward and landed on his hands and one knee.

While Mycroft stood there frozen, too perplexed to brace his brother's fall, he looked down on himself and the mess they had just made.

John was equally surprised. He had anticipated a reaction to the smell from his flatmate, but not _this_.

The stench multiplied, which made John wince.

"Shit, shit, shit…" he cursed.

The next moment Sherlock had regained an amount of composure that allowed him to get back on unsteady feet, or maybe it was a fight or flight reaction and he had just decided he needed to get away.

Before anyone could act he escaped into the bathroom.

The door was locked behind him immediately.

"Shit!"

 

For a moment the older Holmes and John just stared at each other, though John had one eye on the door, tracking Sherlock's movements in the dark bathroom through the glass of the door. When more white appeared in the movements John was sure Sherlock had taken off his suit jacket.

Good, not too distressed to remove the source of his distress, then.

Mycroft's posture was odd but John didn't care. He was busy deciding how long he'd wait until he'd follow Sherlock, but he needed to get rid of Mycroft first.

"He's having another panic attack, isn't he?" the older Holmes asked.

"I don't know. Obviously, he's in there and I'm out here. I'd prefer to go see for myself. He was clearly stressed by the smell. I need to prevent this from turning into something more severe. So if you'd excuse me…"

But instead of just leaving it to him, as John had hoped, the older Holmes followed him towards the bathroom door.

Blocking the door, John stopped; the last thing Sherlock needed at the moment was unwanted company.

When the doctor heard the shower was turned on, he was relieved that Sherlock was aware enough to wash off the blood.

The distorted shape could be seen as Sherlock slowly step into the bath.

"Don't! This was unnecessary cruel and will throw us back weeks!" John criticised sharply.

"I can't possibly… I didn't think this…" Mycroft's superior tone was suddenly gone.

"No, you didn't think. That was my point from the beginning. Let _me_ handle this!" his voice carried obvious anger now. "You know your stoic behaviour will not help him."

Mycroft tried to pass him and now John decided to interfere with more force, he grabbed the British government's upper arm.

"Don't!"

John let go immediately, the gesture should be enough.

Mycroft hissed in discomfort, which puzzled John, he hadn't touched him with that much force.

Sherlock was slowly moving around in the shower and still seemed to be busy washing off the blood, that meant he was neither totally out of it nor puking.

"Are we supposed to wait until he passes out then?" Mycroft asked, his tone thick with sarcasm.

"No! I want you to stay away. Whatever happens, he'll feel like shit as soon as he is through  it, and he won't be happy. Let me handle this for god's sake!"

"John, you're not able to do this alone. Let me call a specialist."

At least Mycroft was waiting for his consent, or pretended to.

"He won't agree to see a psychiatrist or therapist at the moment, so it is not the time! I know, I have been there. He trusts me, we need to work this out together. Not only for his sake, but mine, too. He needs people he trusts, that might be more important than their qualification."

"When he was _away_ , your absence made him behave irrational. Sentiment was disturbing his work. He even talked to me about it briefly, he hadn't displayed so much care for another human being in years, maybe ever," Mycroft's tone had more similarities with someone thinking out loud than with addressing someone.

"What?" John spit, he was irritated about the sudden change of topics.

Suddenly Mycroft's face showed a hint of something John interpreted as pain. How had his whole posture changed within two minutes? Mycroft was supposed to be as stubborn as his little brother.

"I'm afraid I _have_ seen him like this before, erratic and angry. The first time it led to drug use… and at the most recent event he freaked out in my study and… John, I can't risk him falling back into old habits. I have to admit and accept that I can't protect him like this. I _need_ him to be save."

When Mycroft did another step towards the bathroom door and reached for the handle he grimaced.

John was now sure he was physically hurting somewhere.

But the door was locked and didn't open, John strategically moved to stand in the door to the hallway, blocking the other way to the bathroom.

"Wait, weren't _you_ the one who told him caring was a disadvantage? Repeatedly?" John remembered Sherlock had mentioned it once, and when he had asked where he got that nonsense from, his flatmate had explained it was advice from his brother.

"Yes, of course, and I learned that _because_ I care for _him_. It made my life so much harder, that I do. I have told you often enough that I care."

John shook his head.

"So, show it! Care. He needs care right now. Not somebody paying for people whose job it is to pretend they care. He needs _real_ care. Real fondness and real listening. Not just someone who nods and pretends to understand. I was there, Mycroft, I had fucking no one to stand by me when I went through this and it was one of the worst aspects of it all."

"He's not like you."

A few minutes ago, Mycroft's expression had seemed to be dangerous and John wondered if after these words he'd have to worry about a squad team removing him from the flat within the next minutes.

But now the older Holmes' expression had changed, much to John's surprise. And not only his expression, his tone and body language, too.

"Mycroft, he needs you and me, people he trusts, no strangers," he continued, "We need to work _together_ to help him. Stop pushing his limits to prove your point! And don't toddle off, don't hand him to some psychiatrists."

"Obviously, he doesn't want my help."

"He doesn't want your teasing and pushing. And he neither knows how to ask for help nor how to accept it. I know you care, now is the time to show it. Care doesn't mean to do what you think he _should_ need, but what he _actually_ needs."

Mycroft closed his eyes, pressing his lips in a flat line, it reminded John of the moment when he had confronted the older Holmes about using Sherlock as a bait for Moriarty shortly before the fall, that awkward conversation they had in the Diogenes, where John had learned what was really going on.

Mycroft was distressed, though only few people were probably able to actually realise it.

After what felt like minutes - but could only have been a few moments - Mycroft straightened his posture and winced.

"Point made. How do we proceed?"

His tone made the doctor frown, it was different. For a moment John was puzzled and a bit overrun from the sudden change of direction.

But the determination with which Mycroft had said it and the grief in his voice convinced John to abandon to try to get rid off him.

"Good. My pace, my decisions."

"Very well. He trusts you, and so should I have done."

Was Mycroft trying to say he was sorry?

He was as talented as his brother.

For a moment John listened to the sounds from the bathroom and realised the rushing of the shower had become rather monotone; which meant Sherlock was no longer moving around.

Since the connecting door was locked John headed for the hall, Mycroft on his heels.

While walking he slipped the stained jumper over his head and let it fall to the floor.

"Get off everything that has blood on it," he addressed the British government.

After he had knocked twice and hadn't received an answer, John carefully opened the bathroom's other door, it wasn't locked, which was actually a bad sign. Had Sherlock been in his right mind he would have remembered to lock it.

It was quite dark inside; the only light was coming in from Sherlock's room.

John gulped when his eyes had adjusted and he saw his flatmate.

Sherlock was sitting reclined in the bathtub, fully dressed and limp. The shower was raining down on him, but the consultant hadn't bothered to close the curtain and water was pooling on the tiles. Sherlock's head was lowered down and lolled sideways, against the tub's rim, his eyes were closed.

John stepped closer, "Hey, I'm coming in."

No reaction.

"Sherlock?"

"What happened?" Mary said form outside in a low voice, but he ignored her.

"Sherlock?" he tried again.

When the detective didn't react John touched his hand, it was cold as ice.

John sucked in air in surprise, when he realised the water that rained down was cold, too.

Hastily, he turned off the shower, then he patted Sherlock's hand.

No reaction.

The doctor reminded himself to be careful not to provoke anything.

Sherlock's breathing was ragged but not alarmingly fast.

"Did he pass out? Or is he asleep?" Mycroft asked in a low voice, kneeling down at the end of the bath, he had left his jacket and waistcoat outside.

"Nope, not sleeping," Mary addressed the older Holmes, but she stayed in the door. She must have listened to everything that had happened. "This is more like 'spaced out'."

"How do you know?"

"Shut up, everyone," John whispered, "Not even Sherlock falls asleep in the shower with the water running. Get me a small towel."

"Sherlock?… I'm gonna touch you," he warned before he gently took hold of Sherlock's neck and lifted his head. He formed a pillow, then let his head lean back into it.

With one hand he gently moved away the wet hair from Sherlock's slack face, with the other felt for his pulse on his neck.

The total absence of any response to his ministrations was worrying him, he had seen it too often in the past weeks.

"Sherlock, you're safe and home… and you are having a shower. Come back!"

Mary winked at John to get his attention, when John nodded she spoke in a low voice.

"Tab his collarbone and speak to him. Works with you."

Embarrassed that she had seen him in this state often enough to know what worked best the doctor gently tipped Sherlock's clavicle.

"Bit harder, he needs to feel it," Mary explained, "I'll better leave, the less people the better.  Touch him, it'll help. Sweet tea?"

John nodded, then obeyed her suggestion and tapped harder.

"Hey Sherlock, come on."

His friend made a low choked noise and Mary vanished.

"Sherlock! You're having a flashback. What you're experiencing is in the past. Come back to me! We're home at Baker Street."

John shifted a bit, he was now down on one knee, leaning close to the other man.

A soft whimper escaped Sherlock's lips. If it was meant to be a word, John didn't understand. Then it happened a second time and the doctor was able to make out what he was saying, he felt his jaw clench when something in his chest started to ache.

"Jjohh…"

Sherlock was calling for _him._

The sound was heart wrenching and the vulnerability Sherlock was displaying shocked him.

He wasn't sure what to do and did the only thing he could think of for the moment, he reached for Sherlock's hand and held it.

"I'm here, Sherlock. Look at me!"

This time the other man's head moved a bit in his direction and John placed his other hand on Sherlock's forehead.

"That's it, all the way," he cooed, while he continued to tab his hand, more gently now.

The door opened briefly and Mary put down the standard lamp from the sofa next to the door, then switched it on. Finally they were able to see a bit better, it was a soft and dim light. A moment later she had vanished again.

"What can I do?" Mycroft asked.

"Be present, just be here. Talk to him, speaking is an anchor. But don't push, be patient. If he seems half aware, we need to make sure he doesn't slip back into the memory. If you want to distract him, tell him about something nice."

When Sherlock flinched and started to tremble, John moved his thumb over his brow.

"Come on, open your eyes, mate."

Then John addressed Mycroft, "Plug the bath and let in warm water. Might as well use the warmth to make him comfortable," the doctor also feared Sherlock might slip into shock.

Mycroft immediately followed his orders.

Then suddenly - when the water started to flow - Sherlock grunted and moved his arms up, as if to protect his face, John caught the hands in his.

"Open your eyes, you're in the shower!" he ordered in a firm voice.

Sherlock started to blink but there was no understanding in his distant gaze.

"Sherlock, you're at home, do listen to John," Mycroft addressed his brother for the first time.

"Joh'… you nee'to take care o' Mycroft," Sherlock mumbled and John's eyes widened.

Worry for his brother was least he had expected, Sherlock should be angry or make a nasty comment towards his brother or ignore him.

Another odd thing was that Sherlock was not addressing John directly, he reached out to the wall side of the bath, turning away.

"Its okay, Sherlock."

"No, he… he's bleedin'… John?" Sherlock clearly tried to reach for the wall on the other side.

"What?" John turned to Mycroft, "What's he talking about?"

 The older Holmes hesitated but John saw understanding dawn on his face.

"Mycroft!" John hissed, "At least tell him you're fine."

Mycroft knelt down beside John and took one of Sherlock's hands, forcing him gently to look into their direction again.

"Can you hear me? I'm fine. It was only a scratch. It bled, but it looked far worse than it was. But that was in the past, it was weeks ago… You're save… at home in Baker Street. Look at me."

Sherlock's still stared into nothingness, he was not really back with them, but he seemed to have relaxed a bit, the rising warm water and the familiar touches did in fact have a positive effect.

"Are you injured?" John couldn't help but ask the older Holmes.

"No concern of yours, especially not right now. Take care of my brother."

"Jesus, is there anyone in your family that isn't stupidly stubborn when it comes to the own  health?"

"Our mother," Mycroft volunteered.

"Mother… Is there something she or you did in your youth that did him good? A certain touch or something?"

John gently shoved the wet hair out of Sherlock's face, then again letting his hand rest on top of his head for a moment. This had a calming effect on his friend a few days before.

"Sherlock, can you get out of you head and join us for a change?" he said, just to speak.

"Use the shampoo," Mycroft addressed.

"What?" John didn't know what it meant.

Mycroft hesitated, as if not sure if this detail was good to share, "As a toddler the only thing he liked about bathing was our mother washing his hair, at least I deduced he did because it was when he stopped struggling and calmed down. We were never sure if he hated bathing or was fighting it because he knew he was supposed to go to bed afterwards."

John raised his eyebrows, not sure if this wasn't too intimate; on the other hand there was some residual blood there that needed to get out, anyway.

 

 


	86. Wednesday - Interference (Sherlock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's perception of how the aftermath of the earlier crisis continued.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made.  
> I am really glad Mr. Moffat and Mr. Gatiss created and own them, and that they made this terrific show. Thank you so much!

 

 

Tapping on his collarbone, it was shaking his core.

"Sherlock?" John's soothing voice.

A taste of anguish on the tip of his tongue. It made his breath burn in his lungs with bitterness.

He felt awful.

"Can you get out of you head and join us for a change?"

Right, he was at 221b, no longer hunting people and being hunted by them in return.

Home.

What was happening?

Had he taken drugs?

A gentle and calming touch on his head. The hand felt good, better than anything in the past years, so safe, it was almost like a dream.

Probably this wasn't reality, too good to be true.

Was he imagining things?

Water – warm water.

He felt encapsulated in something safe and in warmth, but something that reminded him of utter desperation and panic, was still looming in a dark corner of his existence.

Must be reality then.

Then it came back: Blood, it had been all over him.

He jerked and anxiously breathed through his nose, checking for the smell of fresh blood.

None.

Only the smell of the shower, the detergent Mrs Hudson used, he was wearing clothes, which were currently clinging to him, and he smelled John's shampoo.

A massaging kind of touch on his hair, slick and gentle, followed by soft warm rain falling onto his head.

Right, the shower.

It was hard work to open his leaden eyelids, dark green pressure tried to prevent him from doing so.

"John?"

The orange light that hit him was quite a shock. And… what was Mycroft doing in his bathroom?

He couldn't see properly, everything was blurred and… out of sync.

"Hey…" John moved into his line of sight, "You spaced out. You with me now?"

He tried to nod, but his body was not cooperating.

"Where have you been?" Mycroft was indeed there, he could hear him.

"Don't remind him just now," John warned his brother.

Right, he had been in Serbia. But as soon as he had remembered he tried to shove it away, he didn't _want_ to remember.

Mentally, he tried to turn away from the presence and the memory, not knowing what it was, just sensing something bad was creeping up on him; physically he tried to curl into a ball.

"No! Don't you dare to go back there," John gently gripped his right upper arm and a warm hand stayed on his shoulder.

"Stay with me," it was an order.

Sherlock smiled inwardly.

How much he had missed these… It was good to hear some.

A bit shocked about himself, he realised, that he had never thought it was even possible to be so vulnerable in front of anybody. But right now he was, in front of John, maybe even Mycroft if this was real, but he just didn't care. He had no energy left to care.

Up to now John hadn't left, he had witnessed so much disgusting weakness in the past weeks and yet, he was still here. Accepting and maybe even liking him without question, unconditional love in a platonic way.

That fact somehow frightened Sherlock, but he was not sure if frightened really was the right description for the horrible sensation of dread - or anxiety - about the future he experienced.

It was just more than he deserved and could handle.

Then it gained so much intensity that it overwhelmed him, he couldn't grasp the concept.

His mind was so strained; all it wanted was to shut down.

"Hey..." John's voice was soft and… distant.

Headache.

"How do you feel?"

Ugly, it felt ugly… he wanted to not-feel.

A shadow of a memory passed the backside of his mind, he flinched.

"Mycr'ft?" he managed.

Suddenly the memory of stumbling through a forest in the dark - with his brother - came back full force.

He now remembered the smell of Mycroft and of blood, it must have been what triggered the episode.

Before, in his room, Mycroft had confronted him with the smell of blood, and up to a certain point he had been able to catalogue, store the chronology of his body's reactions, his mind's panic and his progress into stress.

It had been horrifyingly interesting, at least to a certain point; when he hadn't been able to control it any longer he had freaked out.

Suddenly, his breathing once more became more difficult. The reminder of the situation in which he had been when Mycroft smelled of blood and where they had been threatened to draw him back into the maelstrom.

"Sherlock, are you with me?" John asked, sounding confused.

Of course he was.

No, he _wanted_ to be, but the forest was gathering, becoming more dominant, creeping up on him.

It wasn't a _forest_ \- details formed, protruding out of the dark - it was the terrain surrounding Baron Maupertuis' stronghold.

He could smell the moss and the fir trees.

Feel the undergrowth beneath his thigh.

Life was just so surreal.

He wondered which reality was real.

A hand touched his brow and water moved, caused little splashing sounds.

The intensity of both realities and the question what of it must be real life made him gasp.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" Mycroft's voice.

Good, his brother sounded okay so far.

It was just overwhelming, the small boundary between life and death. Between being in a life threatening situation and being safe. They had both been almost killed during their ordeal in Serbia.

Had – they weren't there any longer, right?

The concept of life felt just so unreal right now.

His mind got stuck in it its own personal horror about the cruel concept itself.

It took more energy than he thought he had to stir away from staring at the cruelty.

He just wanted the agony to stop!

STOP!

Nothing stopped, his mental voice echoed through emptiness.

Then it came back to him that he had felt like this before, detached and desperate.

Then he suddenly returned to the layer of reality that happened during their escape, in more detail and a jolt of fear made him suck in air.

Mycroft was hit by a bullet from one of the guards, to their luck the shooter had been very close and they had neutralised him before he could raise an alarm.

Hand to hand.

He didn't want to be in that particular forest.

He wanted to be with John.

John's warm hand returned.

So very soothing and safe.

He forced his eyes open and stared at his friend, who was right next to him, so very close. He could just reach out and touch him if he wanted to.

But he was afraid, he had tried this during his time in the plant, but had just touched nothingness, just air.

Emptiness.

Was John really there, or was this just another fever dream?

Would he ever find his way back into what he had thought was life?

Life as it had been?

As it should be?

Reality had changed into something unpredictable, something odd... nothing felt truly real any longer, at least not while episodes like these where happening.

"You are home, Sherlock. Safe and sound. You and your brother were in your room and you became... unsettled, can you remember?"

John providing a reality check.

How did he manage to just know what he needed so often?

He remembered now, he had tried to minutely catalogue his reactions to the confrontation with the smell of blood. But instead of his intention to analyse and store information he had been helplessly dragged into it - again. He needed to concentrate on that knowledge, mark it as reality.

This was… hell.

He didn't believe the concept of hell existed, but now he wasn't sure any longer.

Where was the use in trying to keep track?

People where dying, why was he suffering life?

The homeless man had passed the state of being alive, why was _he_ still here?

He needed to safe John… and Mycroft was now wounded, too.

"Hey, come on, look at me."

John was there, intact and beautifully naïve.

Or wasn't he?

Was this the decision John had made when he had prayed 'dear god, let me live?'

How had he gathered the courage to go on with this madness called life?

Would he be able to protect the lives that mattered to him?

Under his hands Mycroft was gasping in pain, Sherlock felt the jerky movements of his ribcage. The cold… He was trembling, although Mycroft had given him his coat.

The wet smell of nature and decay enclosed him once more.

Then he felt euphoric relief when his brother rolled away and stumbled to his feet, pain in his features but alive and walking.

They supported each other and went ahead.

Both their hands were covered in blood and they both were in agony.

"Sherlock, I know you are quite bad right now, and I want you to get some relief, gather some strength…" John's voice echoed through the dark.

It was good; the speech anchored him, though he couldn't make out the meaning of the words.

Please, continue to speak.

Something cold and hard was pressed against his lips and then a cold liquid touched his tongue, the bitter taste reminded him of something not-good and he struggled to sit up and shove the hand with the cup away; spit out whatever it was.

The good thing was the unwelcome action provided another brace to reality.

The taste was nasty and the hands on him that tried to keep him from moving were firm and steady.

The odd tugging sensations the water caused on his shirt and trousers were also stealing their way into the forefront of his perception.

Awareness of his body came back with an intense dark blue rush.

Not good.

Too much input. He felt suddenly every pore of his tired and aching transport.

Pain rose.

The air felt thick and hard to breathe.

Too much.

Too much!

He wanted his socks off, his damaged toes hurt, as did his back.

The waistband was pressing into his guts uncomfortably.

When he sat up again the hands came back, but after a moment of hesitation helped him to get rid of the socks and then someone opened his shirt and the belt.

He was pressed back against something soft… a wet towel.

Something cold on his chest.

A stethoscope, John was examining him.

A BP cuff on his arm.

He managed to open his eyes again.

"John…"

Was this the mind palace version or the real John?

The doctor looked down at him, eyes full of worry.

"I'm here, Sherlock."

He finally managed a tired smile.

When Sherlock tried to speak his voice was gone, he cleared his throat.

"Don't stop."

"What?" John's face showed irritation or amusement or disbelief.

"Just found out… physical sensation… grounds me."

"Oh, good. It was meant to be."

Several moments later someone lifted his limp hand out of the water and placed a soft bath sponge into it.

He opened his eyes once more.

"Come on, get out off your head. Concentrate on your surroundings. It'll help. Wash a bit."

Hadn't Mycroft been here a moment before? Where was he?

"Mycroft?" he asked John.

"Getting some dry trousers and needing a minute I guess."

"I had a… flashback."

"Looks like it."

"How do I know for sure?"

"Sherlock, don't. You just managed to get back here. I don't think it's wise to reconnect to the memories just yet, you know it could start another episode."

"I need to figure this out… 't was nasty. Need to store it somewhere safe."

"All right… But be careful."

"Describe it?"

Instead the doctor asked, "Was it intense? Were you aware of your real surroundings?"

"Yes. No. Only in the beginning. I needed to wash _it_ off."

"What exactly?"

"The smell. I…," he panted with an open mouth, the terror of the past minutes suddenly resurfacing, his body reacting to the mere idea of the smell of blood. Pain became more prominent, especially from his back.

"See, that's what I meant! Don't go there! It's a fucking awful idea. You'll trigger it again!" John gently scolded, "Stay with me. This is reality. You are here with me. Don't go there."

Sherlock swallowed and accepted the bottle of shampoo John held out, then started to over accurately focus on washing his hair a second time.

Feel the plastic bottle in his hands, the dollop of shampoo colder than the water.

Concentration wavered but he managed to stay in the bathroom.

Ten minutes later, when he tried to sit up, John held him down again.

"Wait, let us help."

When Mycroft came back they lifted him out of the bath together, he felt shaky and unsteady.

Sherlock squinted his eyes shut when nausea hit him, black spots appeared in his sight.

"It's okay. We've got you," the voice came from a great distance and the grip around his elbows and on upper arms tightened.

Within moments he was wrapped in a towel and held upright, his legs not able to carry his weight.

His mind must have skipped the disgusting procedure of getting peeled out of the wet clothes and into some pyjamas, because the next thing he knew was he was moved up and forward.

"Let's get him to bed."

"No," he protested hoarsely.

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. You need some rest."

"Sofa then," he insisted.

They wrapped more blankets around him.

The touches were not as awful as expected. These were not the sterile impersonal touches that were inflicted in hospitals, these were careful tender ministrations.

For the first time in his life he registered the difference between being vulnerable and being taken care off.

He was tired, which manifested in a grey fog-like pressure around his head, it gained overwhelming intensity.

Since he had resurfaced in the bathtub droning speech had surrounded him. John, Mycroft and Mary were talking, but he had a hard time following it. He was still unable to conceive the meaning of most utterances. Understanding was switched on and off, it was quite annoying.

Also, he was too tired to focus and try to understand.

He felt trapped in a semi permeable bubble that had its own will.

Still disconnected.

When they moved him towards the sofa he was trembling with exhaustion and cold, his mind was once more forcing his transport to surrender into submission.

Before they reached the seat the world suddenly dropped away without a warning.

 

 


	87. Wednesday - Mycroft's memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft explains what happened when he extracted Sherlock from Serbia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last week my display died on me and for several days I had no computer at all - which caused the lack of an update last week – very sorry about that :(  
> That's also the same reason why this chapter has not been given the final touch I usually like to do.  
> Well, now I have a very old very small borrowed computer monitor that is barely usable, but I didn't want you to have to wait for another week for an update. So I decided a bit more bad grammar and typing would be preferable to another week without an update... Hope you agree.

When John felt Sherlock becoming very heavy suddenly, he tightened his grip. Mycroft supported his brother on the other side without problems, though gave a grunt of surprise. Together it wasn't too hard to keep him upright. The older Holmes, who was a few centimetres higher than Sherlock, had the advantage of a better angle.

"Okay, let's make him lie down."

"Right. He'll probably sleep through an earthquake right now. His body does that sometimes,  switch him off. I don't think he'll prevail any time soon," Mycroft stated.

He grimaced when he carefully lifted Sherlock's arm over his shoulders to better support his limp figure for the few remaining steps towards the sofa.

They carefully lowered him down.

Before, when they had peeled Sherlock out of his wet clothes it became clear to John that Mycroft had done that before. In fact he knew exactly where to hold, push and support to an unresponsive person. Moving somebody who was completely passive and slack was a difficult task, and most people - who's work didn't include this type of thing - were quite surprised when they were confronted with it for the first time.

In John's opinion the older Holmes had a normal healthy figure for a man his age, he couldn't understand Sherlock's constant bickering about his physique, and at the moment John was witness to the fact that the man was also stronger than he looked.

Without much of an effort Mycroft lifted both of Sherlock's legs up and folded them into a proper resting position.

Sherlock seemed to be asleep, his complexion was not too bad, his breathing slow and his pulse a bit fast, but overall okay.

While John went to get his bag to check Sherlock once more he passed Mary, who seemed to keep a very close eye on things, but held back from interfering, probably because she was wise enough to let Mycroft be involved as much as possible to make him understand what she had weeks ago.

John smiled at her and briefly kissed her cheek, "I love you."

When John returned he watched Mycroft literally tuck his little bother in, making sure that the blanket covered him completely and left no openings for cold air.

The rolled up sleeves, the partially wet shirt and trousers looked foreign, even misplaced on the British government, but it made John see the care and brotherly love, he knew were hidden in the stoic man.

Apparently Mycroft didn't recoil from these kind of things, to put in a bit of elbow grease was something he was ready to do, at least for Sherlock.

John had to unwrapped Sherlock's arm again though in order to check his BP, the older Holmes meanwhile took care of the fire.

"You guys look like you could use a drink," Mary said from the kitchen.

"Thank you, yes," Mycroft answered.

"There must be something in the kitchen drawer, but only use it if the seal isn't broken…"

"I know, John."

A few moments later she handed Mycroft a brandy glass.

The doctor said nothing while making sure his friend was really okay.

He was still angry at Mycroft, not only for the provocation of a flashback, but for the whole Moriarty thing, the fall and especially the fact that he hadn't taken better care of Sherlock during his 'vacation' as he called it, the term irked John as well.

Silently signalling them to go to the kitchen, he stored away his stethoscope. They vanished and a few moments later he followed them and closed the glass doors.

"I can see your disapproval, John. And I'm afraid, you're probably right. I should have listened to you. There was just so little progress and I failed him often enough in the past. I wanted to do the right thing this time."

"Right. By doing the same thing wrong, you always do wrong. By putting pressure on him or worsening the situation. Well done," John voiced his disappreciation.

When Mycroft looked at the ground, deep in thoughts for some long moments the doctor decided to poke a bit.

"What happened during your escape? What was he remembering?"

"I was late, John, far too late. He had been in the hands of the enemy for quite some time when I finally arrived. He had deemed it unnecessary to keep me up to date - I'm sure you have experienced this unfortunate trait before as well. As soon as I got notice about his incarceration I organised his extraction."

It was quite obvious from Mycroft's posture, that he was not eager to talk about it.

"I was held back when I had to live up to my cover, which added to the delay. I risked a lot to get there as soon as possible. When I finally met him other factors delayed our escape."

"What the hell _happened_?"

"He was kind of out of it… I mean the beatings, sleep deprivation and dehydration were bad. He wasn't able to walk unaided at first. When I realised he couldn't move fast on his own I had to switch to plan B, to make sure the window of a clear path would be a lot wider.

Making sure we would have enough time caused further delay and resulted in more physical abuse. It was the only way."

Mycroft kept his silence for some long moments, regret on his face.

"I'm not sure he really believed it was really me for quite some time… He treated me like a hallucination. He also kind of panicked when I freed him of the chains. In fact, I briefly considered gagging him, but I couldn't bring myself to do it."

John huffed in surprise, though he knew there were situations in which things like that would save lives, even when they sounded cruel.

"But he calmed down and kept quiet when I told him to."

Mycroft took a sip of his drink.

"As soon as we left the cellar we headed for my carefully planned escape route, through the rather wild estate's greening. The path should have been clear, but one of the stupid guards was secretly calling his girlfriend and we ran right into him. He was so concentrated on  whispering dirty secrets into his phone he didn't really see us. It's always the human factor destroying good plans – or simple unprofessionalism."

He sighed and took another sip.

"Well, when we realised he was there we stopped, but it was too late, he had seen movement. Although he needed a rather long time to raise his silenced handgun I had not enough time to move us both out of the way. He hadn't really seen us, but decided to fire blind into the bushes. One bullet grazed my upper arm. I managed to neutralise our attacker, but it bled a lot and Sherlock was not really… his senses where not the most reliable source of information at that time."

"What does that mean?"

"When he realised I was hit his panic escalated, for a moment, though. He was fussing and shaken by the prospect of seeing me bleeding or the fact that I might be badly wounded. I've never seen him panic about a little graze like that. It was then that I started to realise something was wrong. I had never seen him like that. But I assumed it was because he was in such a bad state."

Mycroft took another sip from his glass.

"I'm afraid he was close to giving up, provoking them to kill him. He wasn't trusting me to really _be_ there, assumed he was hallucinating."

"He told me he imagined me being with him when he was really bad, he might as well have called a virtual version of you," John shared.

"Yes, of course, especially since I hadn't interfered immediately after my arrival at the manor… I needed to observe, it was quite a complex task to get him out of there."

"You watched them _torture_ him!" John hissed.

A few weeks ago, when John had met the older Holmes - shortly after he had learned about the torture - he had yelled at Mycroft for what he had done before the fall and the fact that he had watched his brother being tortured.

Mycroft had been surprisingly rueful, uttered his regret about being unable to stop the ordeal, had apologised twice, and had endured John's shitstorm patiently.

"As is said before, I had to, yes. This memory will be one of the worst of my life. The regret and guilt I carry about that is heavy on me. If I had seen any way to prevent it, I would have done it.  But interfering too early would have gotten both of us killed. It was the only way."

"Damn, Mycroft!" the doctor cursed.

"Obviously, I was sure my presence would make it clear the situation was under control, the imminent escape making it easier to endure the torment a bit longer. I was wrong. He didn't feel safe due to my presence. It seems I failed to protect him."

John saw more than heard it in the words how devastated and shaken the older Holmes had been by the events, his posture spoke volumes and left no doubt Mycroft was honestly elaborating his inner mind.

"It might have made the perception of being helpless even worse, that you were just standing by. As far as I know the absence of control brings forward the occurrence of trauma," John said.

He knew about some details of the escape, he had read file. There had been hints that it hadn't worked as smoothly as planned, but the reasons why hadn't been documented. John  had tried to ask Anthea about it, but she had been as close lipped as usual.

"Right. Feeling vulnerable, at someone's mercy and / or helpless is a strong factor in the development of psychological trauma," Mycroft stated.

"How do you know…?"

"I actually sought advice from one of the specialists I tried to recommend before. I needed to know exactly what my brother was facing and therefore discussed his behaviour with one of our psychologists."

"At least you didn't read a book," John rolled his eyes.

"Pardon?"

Mary, who was busying herself with preparing dinner, gave an annoyed huff.

"Never mind. He eventually was sure you were not bleeding to death or in grave danger and you went on."

"He had problems to shake off the additional stress my wound caused him. I was very glad when we finally found the carefully hidden escape vehicle. After several detours we finally reached a small airfield, then flew to Bari. It was an excruciating exercise, we were both unwell and he seemed to be dragged or thrown into his Mind Palace on several occasions, not able to fight his way out."

John wondered if this was Mycroft's description of what was also known of 'thousand yard stare' or if Sherlock had really actively used the Mind Palace.

"All right, get off that shirt," John suddenly changed directions. He just needed a minute to process this… and get his lingering frustration out off the way.

Mycroft cared much about Sherlock, he knew that. That's how they had met and it was the main reason for them meeting nowadays.

It even rose to ridiculous heights when the British government came over to play childhood games with his little brother, just to be present or keeping him company.

In the first days John had stayed over he had found the old games and asked Sherlock about them.  

Sherlock had explained he had played with his brother. At first John thought it was a joke, but now he was sure Mycroft had left his job to watch over his brother, made sure he didn't do anything stupid after being rebuffed by his friend.

The fact that the older Holmes had infiltrated the compound himself to get his little brother out spoke volumes, John wasn't sure he could believe it when he first heard it. He had assumed Mycroft would send some special trained agents, but he went _himself_ , did actual risky footwork.

As much as they were quarrelling and pricky in their communication on the surface, and as brusque as their interactions were, their odd care for each other was a mixture of sincere and rough, and sometimes even careful and tender, like right now. The doctor had no doubt it had been like that during their escape, too.

Sherlock trusted his brother, maybe not when it came to criminals or government topics, but on a more basic level of existence.

Even though Mycroft had - fully aware it would have this effect - caused an intense flashback an hour ago, and Sherlock had suffered through its aftermath - the detective had not refused him when he resurfaced.

There was a level of Sherlock-being-seriously-hurt when Mycroft became tender and he was never denied by his younger sibling in those situations, although the forms this took were often strange for a 'normal' person.

Although Sherlock had made some remarks over the time that showed scant respect for Mycroft in their childhood, it must have been present, otherwise the younger Holmes would not refer to it as often as he did.

John assumed in their childhood Mycroft had been the one explaining the world, being the translator and guide, who knew how society and human interaction worked, and how to behave correctly. The doctor was also sure Sherlock's parents have tried to understand their son, but weren't as capable as Mycroft was. 

"What did you do when he had the episode at your house?" John asked while Mycroft unbuttoned his shirt.

"As I described to you before, he collapsed from the stress of watching the surveillance footage. When he regained consciousness a few moments later, he freaked out, delirious with pain and fever. I tried to hold and soothe him at first, but he was too much out of it, so I tried to restrain him. He was more furious at me than ever before. It went out of control and I was afraid he might hurt himself or me, but due to my injury I couldn't manage, not even with Anthea's help. So she called for my doctor, who was already in the house. He tranquillised him."

"Did he attack you?"

"… Not really."

"What does that mean?"

"I will not elaborate… He was still angry days later when he finally was getting better, by then his anger had changed into a constant low level spite, which once more spiked when I made him stay in the house to recover before seeing you. I am sorry for how all this worked out."

"You need to tell _him_ , not me."

"I know."

Mycroft shoved the wet silk of his shirt down his arm. It bared a fresh red scar.

"There were times during his _vacation_ when I lost track of him," the older Holmes continued, "…even a period of two full months without any messages. I was starting to give up hope that he was still alive. I must say that those months affected me… profoundly, and I do not wish to repeat such an experience."

It was a through-and-through that had damaged Mycroft's lateral head of triceps, without doubt a painful injury that he'd feel for months. He was as skilful as his brother hiding the pain. The wound was healing nicely and had no doubt received excellent care.

"Before, when you confronted him with the smell, he held onto this arm and you couldn't support him, could you?"

"No."

John nodded at him to get dressed again.

"About one thing we need to be absolutely clear: You will _not_ do a stunt like that again!" John's tone was hard now, "You will _not_ deliberately provoke something, just to make a point! He needs support and protection from triggers right now."

"I was told EMDR is very effective in order to come to terms with those damaging memories."

"It is, and it is working very well with most PTSD patients."

Mycroft just nodded and when John took breath to inform him that now was not the right moment for this, he anticipated the words and said, "I know."

Mycroft then finished his drink and went for a second.

"The thing is, he's Sherlock, he doesn't do moderate, and he doesn't do healthy doses, whatever it is," the older Holmes continued, "As you are well aware, he has no normal way to vent things, there is only 'appearing normal' and 'breaking point' and the last time the latter came without warning, because he does not do 'in between'. All or nothing. He doesn't know how to relax and gather strength. And his cluelessness almost killed him once. He can switch his mind off with drugs, that's the danger. He states it's the only thing that gives him peace. He has no healthy self healing mechanisms every normal person has."

"I know. He needs someone who understands him. So, all you have to do right now is listen to his needs and be there… and respect the triggers. Help him get them out of the way for now. He has done important first steps and is on his way to find his own healing mechanisms," John hesitated, not sure how to talk about the drugs topic without mentioning  Sherlock's minor relapse.

"One more thing about the _drugs_ … We had a longer talk about that a few days ago and… I am quite sure it is not a problem at the moment."

"Interesting."

"Why?"

"He never talks about the drugs."

"Well, he did with me and I think it was a good start. I trust him with this right now… I decide if he needs meds and I am the only one who administers medication, too."

"Really? Good," there was a hint of doubt in Mycroft's voice, though.

"You know about the plant and the homeless man?" John changed topics once more.

Mycroft frowned, which John interpreted as a 'not really'.

"Okay, we'll talk about that later. Why don't you get one of Sherlock's clean shirts while I check on him again before we eat."

 

 


	88. Wednesday evening and Thursday - Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftershocks of Sherlock's episode encourage John be a bit more acitve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made.  
> I am really glad Mr. Moffat and Mr. Gatiss created and own them, and that they made this terrific show. Thank you so much!

 

 

**Still Wednesday evening**

 

When John stepped to the sofa he immediately realised Sherlock was breathing too fast for someone deep asleep, and his expression was tense. He was on his side now, facing into the room, his eyes closed tightly.

The doctor rested his flat hand on the side of Sherlock's head.

"You aren't sleeping any longer, are you?" he said in a low voice.

The head under his hand shook minutely.

"Did we wake you up?"

Another tiny shake.

Sherlock didn't open his eyes, and John assumed he was having a hard time or wanted their communication to stay private. His friend had shown increasing trust in him during the past week.

It had been an odd curve since his return. The first days John had stayed over the trust seemed to ebb away. Then there had been a struggle to regain some of it, and now they seemed to have managed re-establishing it.

Sherlock had really given over control of a small amount of aspects of his issues, like right now, when he just relaxed under John's hand, didn't shove it away, just took it in.

It seemed he had also needed quite some time to come back to London mentally. Maybe it was similar to what John had experienced, when he came back from the war.

What Sherlock had been through had been kind of war, he had failed to see that in the beginning.

The contrast between civil life and being out there fighting was so enormous and overwhelming, the sudden absence of threats and violence so unreal, that most soldiers experienced difficulties adjusting. John remembered very well how this had felt and how long it took to sense things _normal_ again that _used_ to be normal once.

Experiencing war changed people, and Sherlock was affected by his experiences. 

The former army surgeon felt a light trembling under his hands, not the kind panic caused, but the kind produced by wrecked with tension.

"You need an _override, don't you?_ "

John referred to a conversation they had earlier and was sure the other man knew what he meant. It was the opposite of an override to actually ask him, John was aware. But he felt he needed to give him kind of a warning he was about to decide he needed it.

As expected Sherlock didn't react, didn't refuse, didn't welcome the idea.

Sherlock _needed_ rest, this latest episode had exhausted him, though it hadn't shaken him as bad as the two preceding ones.

As far as John understood his different behaviour this time was due to the fact that Sherlock had managed to observe the event unfold from some kind of a meta level.

Of course it had devastated him, but he had learned important things, too. And he had also not tried to escape any one's presence, as soon as he became aware of it.

Two minute later John gently helped Sherlock drink a few sips of water he had dozed thoroughly with a fast acting sleeping aid. It took Sherlock a lot of effort to even lift his head to drink.

To make sure this wasn't making things worse John stayed with his friend, sitting next to him and keeping a hand on his shoulder while waiting for him to fall asleep. 

When he heard someone enter in his rear, he held up his hand without turning around, to signal either Mary or Mycroft to stop, stay away and stay silent.

They did, the door was closed silently.

Although they could be heard speaking softly in the kitchen.

It didn't take long until Sherlock's body surrendered and relaxed.

When he sank deeper into the seat of the sofa the enormous amount of tension poured out of him in a way so very visible it send horripilation over John's back.

 

Later, while John and Mary were eating, Mycroft sat with them in the kitchen and listened to John's reproduction of the events that had taken place in the abandoned plant.

There were carefully hidden signs of distress on Mycroft's side about what he heard, most of it was news to him.

In the end John suggested that Sherlock needed kind of closure about this and encouraged Mycroft to figure out who the dead homeless man was and if his body was still there.

Since the older Holmes didn't even know where the factory was, it would be a challenge. But John thought Mycroft should use his brain to make up for triggering the episode and should be actively involved in Sherlock's recovery, though he had no idea how knowing these facts would do anyone any good. But he'd make sure there'd be plenty of opportunities during Sherlock's reconvalescence for involving Mycroft and working on the issues, his friend needed all the help he could get right now, and with the British government's help certain things would be all so much easier.

**Thursday morning**

When Sherlock woke up, the flat was quiet.

His eyes went through the room and found John, sleeping in his armchair, curled up.

It was an odd sight. He tried to remember if John had ever done that before.

A moment later the events of the past night came back, and he sat up with a horrified groan, shoving the blanket away and putting his feet on the ground.

The cold world wobbled.

Right, sleep aid, nasty stuff, but he had been embarrassingly glad to escape reality by sleep.

Frustration rose because by now he should be able to just endure the smell of blood, should have learned how to manage that. He was trying for weeks, but it didn't work to his satisfaction.

A better plan was needed.

Intensify practising and the exposure might be necessary.

On one hand, the fact that John and Mycroft had talked in his absence caused uneasiness,

on the other John had obviously kicked Mycroft's behind somehow; there was no other plausible explanation to why his brother's behaviour had changed so profoundly during the few minutes he had been alone in the bathroom desperately trying to wash of the odour.

The pure memory of yesterday's distress caused another wave of anguish rushing through his mind, dark blue and prickling.

He felt the dire need to mentally trample it down, and he did.

At least, this time he had been able to analyse the incident, catalogue what happened in succession of what, step by step. He had registered the inrush of thoughts and sensations; it was a first, at least with this level of accuracy.

He perceived his hands were in his hair, pulling it.

Suddenly John sat up straight, he must have made some noise.

Sherlock froze, ashamed about last night… or _something_.

What made it bad was not really that _John_ had witnessed it, it was that Mycroft and Mary had.

He buried his face in his hands, to have more time to think.

"Hey," some fingers briefly on the side of his knee.

When he looked up, John was hunched down in front of him.

Rings under his eyes, worried.

To his own surprise didn't know what to say - which didn't happen often. He couldn't think, his mind was muddled from the medication.

"Mycroft and Mary left for work."

His friend didn't ask how he was feeling. He knew him so well, it was relaxing to be able to dwell on the nearness, the understanding without the need for spoken words. He had missed that.

It had been very intense when John had touched his head last night, it had caused…? Feelings?

Still trying to plod though the sensations he suddenly met a sparkling dark smell of earl grey that entered his nostrils and he heard John return from the kitchen.

Not their usual brand.

"Drink."

Gratefully, he accepted the cup.

"It won't work, you know," John said.

"Pardon?"

John sat down in front of him.

What had happened to the rule about sitting on not-sitting-furniture?

Maybe they were beyond rules now.

"Confronting yourself with triggers to get accustomed to them won't work."

All of a sudden, Sherlock felt mentally stripped.

"That's what you did confront yourself with the smell, isn't it? Experimenting on yourself, creating your own version of exposure therapy?"

There was no way of denying it, that was exactly what he had done.

"It won't work… It's good for things like anxiety and for people who use avoidance as a coping strategy - as far as I know - but those are not your problems, Sherlock. Therefore, it's not the right strategy."

"Oh, I assume a suggestion of what _is_ will follow?" Sherlock spit.

"Sorry, mate, didn't… Sorry. Can we talk about this without… I didn't mean to criticise. If you're honest with yourself, you know that it has done you no good. How long has this been going on?"

Sherlock felt his shoulders sag.

John was right.

But he had needed to fix this.

"Well, I guess, there's something we should do. I know this is hard, but for both our safety I want to ask you to help me make a list of things that are really distressing for you, or that have triggered something in the past weeks. Because for now we need to avoid those."

"Are you suggesting that I behave like a coward?"

"Er, Sherlock! This is not about being fainthearted, it's about healing and being safe. I need to be aware what they are."

"Avoiding them is gutless."

"No! We're not having this conversation. What you did here the past weeks, confronting yourself with blood, was a bit stupid. I know a trigger when I see one. I have data of years of shipping around mine. In order to handle them, we first need to find ways to work around them, later we can try to overwrite them. Don't get me wrong, I understand why you did it and why you expected it to work, and that there are some trauma therapists who think constant confrontation is a good idea."

Sherlock leaned back closing his eyes, obviously not happy about their topic.

"But the approach used today and by many good specialists is to respect those triggers and slowly remove them," John continued. " _How_ to do that is a different topic, but for the moment it _is_ important to be aware of them and evade them, because you happen to be confronted with certain things in your line of work and I think you need your work to get better."

"I…"

"Just listen," John interrupted him.

Sherlock shut his mouth with a disapproving grunt.

"I'll only go to cases with you if I know what I'm dealing with. So that I'll be able to protect both of us from you having a panic attack at Scotland Yard or a flashback while following a perpetrator. You understand why I think this is essential? I mean like in 'pure logic'?"

"Yes," Sherlock growled, he didn't like where this was going

"Good, then work with me here and help me make a list. I know this isn't easy, I really do, because I had to make such a list myself. Chances are high ugly memories will come up, but believe me, it'll be far worse if those come up at the wrong moment. I'm sure you don't want Sally to see you have a meltdown or something because you kicked yourself right into an episode after neglecting your body's warning signs. Which you are quite good at, I might add. You don't need to tell me in detail, you could just write them down on a sheet of paper, bullet point form. "

"No need to unnerve me further, I already said I understood."

"Right," John sadly smiled at him, "Let's do this tonight, after dinner."

"I won't eat before talking about anything like…"

John spoke when he didn't continue, "That bad, uh?"

"Hand me some paper."

"You want to do this _now_?"

"Certain aspects of wetness and blood, mainly smells, several physical sensations," Sherlock listed so fast John had trouble making out the words.

"Alright, then. As far as I know, trauma can… kind of accumulate… It doesn't necessarily need to be caused by one big event. It can be caused by an unconnected string of bad events, that share a common aspect. The initial event might be a really bad experience but not unmanageable, only moderately traumatic to the psyche. When something happens that then…"

"Understood."

Another white sheet appeared in front of Sherlock a moment later, together with a pen and a blotting pad, and he understood they would both make their own notes.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will not discuss or describe EMDR or trauma therapy in this story since I am currently going through another round of it myself and it would do me no good to imagine/write about such scenarios. This story triggered me a lot from the start, since it became kind of my home-made coping strategy it was allowed to, and I was aware it would.  
> And it in fact helped me cope.
> 
> I am currently posting two other stories, too. Pain Management Part 1 and 2, check them out if you like H/C.  
> Thank you for reading.


	89. Thursday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Discussing Sherlock's issues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story had a very clear timeline from the beginning, I just thought it wasn't really important, so I only used the days for orientation. But at the end of this chapter I used it for fun.  
> This chapter was very hard to write and I really struggled until I was finally daring to publish it now.

 

 

**Thursday**

The intense whiteness of the sheet of paper in front of him hurt Sherlock's eyes and he stared at it. He had no idea what he was supposed to write down for a moment.

"So, blood is definitely a trigger, probably a quite complex one, linked to several bad events. Start with 'blood' and don't concentrate on the memories, just list what you experienced as unsettling."

Sherlock knew what John was trying to do. This was kind of collecting the evidence, and he had to admit it was necessary, because he didn't know how to do it himself.

John was right, it couldn't go on like this.

He wrote down 'blood', and for a moment he was glad it was just letters without meaning, but then, although he tried to prevent it, they evolved into a meaning.

The characters blurred and the black ink seemed to get a dark red tinge.

He fought.

It was all in his head, he just needed to fight it off.

His mind jumped to the first time blood had smelled bad: the pavement, Barts.

To anchor himself in reality, he drew a line, concentrated on the sensation of the pen moving over the paper, his own movements.

Then he over-neatly printed the word 'Barts' at its end. He added another line, with led to the word 'plant'.

John watched him and stared at the word 'Barts'.

Sherlock needed a moment to realise the look on his face was a question, though was sure the other man wouldn't ask.

He had just told him to stay away from the actual memories, hadn't he?

"How you reacted… you were devastated," Sherlock explained, not looking up.

"Sherlock, you don't need to talk about it if you… if it… I mean I'll listen and I'd be honoured by the trust, but you don't need to, not for me."

"I heard you collapse, felt the commotion when the passers-by caught you. The smell of my blood was intense."

He remembered John's desperation.

Followed by the devastation.

It had taken him by surprise. He had not expected this, neither his own distress, nor John's.

With growing horror he had understood something was already going wrong with his brilliant plan, something serious, but he shoved it away, until he met John in the restaurant two years later.

Blood and John collapsing from extreme distress had linked.

It still hurt, not only physically.

He felt some blackness hurting somewhere in his mind. It mixed with solid flames in biting orange that cut into the darkness.

Like mental stab wounds, slashed into his mind.

This was miserable.

He felt nauseous, again.

"Hey, you need to stay with me."

He swallowed.

"You told me about the homeless guy in the plant, and I also know about the smells of blood from the torture…"

Sherlock wrote down 'cellar'.

"…and Mycroft's wound."

He added 'Mike', to John's obvious surprise.

Had he never used the short nickname in John's presence?

"Your brother is fine."

"I know."

"You seemed very concerned last night."

"Where do you get that idea? I wasn't _concerned…_ His smell combined with the smell of blood, his after shave… I was remembering the moment after he was shot… I'm quite able to observe my own reactions."

"Don't change topics. You feared he was badly hurt, that _is_ called concern. He's not here, you can admit it."

Sherlock hesitated, but then nodded minutely with a grimace.

"The fact that he came _personally_ to get you speaks volumes, don't you think?"

"Although I wasn't happy about him watching me being beaten, most of it had happened before he arrived, and in hindsight, I agree, he made sure we could escape."

John was glad that there was no need to convince Sherlock of the good motives of his brother, because he doubted he'd be very convincing after last night.

"What else…?"

Sherlock didn't answer but wrote down: 'South India' and 'Offshore platform'

The doctor frowned but held back questions.

A moment later Sherlock added 'Golden Gate Park'.

"You were in San Francisco?"

The look Sherlock gave him made John raise his hands.

He stared at the sheet for about half a minute, then handed it back to John.

"Okay."

Obviously, John was not surprised to learn about three more events where blood had played a roll.

"I want you to know that if you need to talk to somebody you can come to me. I can't do what a therapist can, but I can at least listen as a friend."

"I won't want to talk. I don't need to talk."

"I know. I just wanted you to know I'm here."

"I won't."

"Just store the damn information."

"Fine."

"Thank you for trusting me," John said.

Sherlock huffed, "I don't know how to trust. I don't know if I ever knew what the word meant."

"Yes, you do. You just did, and you trusted me last night."

"I'm not sure that was trust."

"I am."

"I never felt this before."

"I know. That was vulnerability and trust, Sherlock."

"There was never anybody there when I…"

"When you needed someone? Mate, you're feeling vulnerable right now, that's absolutely normal."

"I don't. There's no point in..."

"Yes, you do. It feels vaguely like wanting some kind of protection," John tried carefully.

"I do _not_ need protection, I hunted dangerous killers for two years, and lived. Why would I need protection?"

"The one doesn't exclude the other. Besides, I'm not saying you _need_ it, what I'm trying to describe is a feeling like 'nothing is safe any more'. It is more like needing a safe place, needing to feel safe _somewhere_. A retreat, free of danger, one might also put it."

"What does that feel like, again?"

There they were, discussing the topic once more. John was actually surprised they revisited the term 'vulnerability' frequently. It seemed to be a major issue that Sherlock wasn't really able to connect to the description, or was it too superficial?

"Er, like being exposed, like knowing someone lurks in the dark, pretty much as you described having an intruder in the mind palace. Something unknown aiming at you from behind."

"Wouldn't 'afraid' be a more accurate description, more appropriate?"

"Can be an aspect of it."

"I'm still not sure I know what that feels like, then."

"I'm telling you it is what you feel. That's what it _is_ called, you're feeling vulnerable for weeks now, I was just trying to explain it, now and before."

"The earlier explanations were more useful," Sherlock stated plainly.

 

John gave him a tight smile, then pressed his lips together when he realised he didn't know how to help his friend.

Some aspects of Sherlock were exposed and unshielded, and he wanted to make him feel safe and protected.

But how?

Overall, what really surprised John, was that Sherlock didn't react with loads of anger or aggression as so many people did after having experienced such a state of defencelessness.

Was this worse than anger?

Or had this been going on far longer than John thought and he was already past the anger, had used it to survive before?

"Your descriptions of feelings are - though more precise than most people's - lacking all major aspects of how things actually feel," Sherlock elaborated.

"No, that's how _normal_ people feel like."

"They are wrong."

"No, they are _normal_ , but let's not have this discussion - I know you sense feelings different. Normal people don't go into detail like this. They don't discuss or dissect or analyse stuff like you - we do… you make us do. They usually want to know the summary, kind off, know the dos and don'ts, but that's all."

John knew sooner or later he needed to ask for details of the triggers to successfully evade them, and needed to talk to Greg about it. The creation of a safety net was necessary.

"Oh," Sherlock looked a bit puzzled, "Maybe it's like exchanging mind palace rooms… and keeping them safe… in a good state, correct?"

"You lost me."

Sherlock made a noise of frustration.

And the doctor concluded he had answered to something from earlier in the conversation.

"Feeling protected."

"Kind of, yes," John finally got it.

"Okay."

"There's one thing that could help you erase the triggers, get you back to work, something very helpful and working rather fast."

Sherlock's features changed immediately, mental recoiling John assumed.

"I am fine."

"No, Sherlock. You're not okay."

"I will not see a psychiatrist!"

"You are definitely not fine, and you know it. We need to get a grip on the smell of blood triggering you. There's actually treatment for that, which is one of the most successful treatment in therapy at all. EMDR."

When Sherlock drew a sharp breath John held up his hand.

"Let me finish. It's something I can't do and we need assistance with, but this actually doesn't need long therapy sessions-- ... Well, usually it does, to get to know each other, establish a base for working the trauma thing out, stabilise the patient and so on, but the actual act of 'reprogramming' can be done in a few sessions. I just ask you to read into it, before you refuse."

"I won't…"

"Sherlock! I did this. It helped. You need to consider something this fast and successful!… I know it's actually something that is hard to do, to understand to need help… and maybe even worse, ask for it. Guess I was lucky, I didn't have a choice, they carted me to therapy sessions in a wheelchair before I was even able to go have a piss on my own..." he added sarcastically.

"I can't talk…"

"Yes, if you want, you can. I'll accompany you, if you want me to," John offered, but winced because he feared he was pushing too much too early.

Carefully, he sat down next to Sherlock.

"That's not…"

"You can do it."

"Not with anyone 'not-you'."

"Oh," John just made, lost for words for a long moment. "Well, thank you for that proof of trust… Mycroft might be able to find a therapist who agrees to do just the EMDR sessions without a whole year of therapy around it, if we ask him. Or I can ask Ella," John tried to soften the idea of the scenario.

It was a fine line between speculating about the conditions that might make this work and being careful not to push the detective into dire refusal.

"NO! And not Ella!"

"Well, the thing is, she already has my background and knows what happened, in a general sense, I mean."

"No!"

"Calm down, I'm just trying to find out what circumstances you need to consider this. This is just hypothetical. Can you try to explain what makes you so… opposed to the idea of seeing a therapist?"

"Make a deduction."

"I don't want to. I need to hear it from _you_ , in your own words."

"I simply don't do that."

"That's not a reason, Sherlock."

"Fine, I'm a total imbecile when it comes to communicating feelings. It would be more of an issue to describe them than to deal with them on my own. I doubt any therapist would understand that. They'd probably insinuate that I wasn't willing to confront myself with sensing what I feel and that I try to undermine the therapy just because I can't describe the sentiment I suffer."

"Do you evade feeling what is there?"

"How would I know?"

John sighed, this was exactly the problem, and Sherlock had just said it. He could imagine what Ella would reply being told this, it wouldn't be far from what Sherlock had just suggested.

Not an option.

"Someone told you in the past that you undermined therapy?"

"I don't do therapy."

"That wasn't the question."

"Yess… many people accuse me of manipulating things."

"So you had therapy in the past?"

When Sherlock made a try to get up, John grabbed his upper arm and kept him in place.

So, this was a sore spot Sherlock was not ready to talk about.

"Alright. I won't ask about that again, sorry."

He saw his friend was clenching his jaw.

"I won't waste energy on a tasks like that. On being interpreted and analysed by the absence of certain behaviours I don't utilise because I consider them useless. It is especially stupid that some therapists assume that the decision to behave in a certain way is absolutely  subconscious, where every person with a bit of a brain would be able to decide how he or she wants to behave, especially when it comes to body language. So the inability to distinguish between interpreting intentional behaviour and not intentional is where most of them lack, which is in my view the most basic skill in observing people," Sherlock once more spoke very fast and sounded unnerved.

The doctor sighed, he understood what Sherlock was trying to describe, though it was a bit abstract.

In fact, the chance that the detective would be misunderstood was pretty high, John knew how few people actually could communicate successfully with Sherlock. He really understood the problem and was aware Sherlock was not necessarily trying to evade talking, but afraid to be treated in the wrong way due to being misinterpreted.

Like experiencing dismissal because the other person perceived his behaviour as rude, or being called a freak for uttering what his more-than-average accurate senses told him. Or being refused because he didn't see the point in social niceties, gossip or small talk.

Sherlock had been misunderstood in the past when it came to physical health problems, mental issues where so much harder.

But the fact that the detective was well aware that he was able to absolutely manipulate any observations a therapist could make - and therefore render them all useless, because he understood what and why and how they interpreted things - and would be able to adjust his behaviour, might in fact cause havoc.

Sherlock's knowledge about psychology was profound, although he lagged to connect to his own feelings. He was able to analyse others himself, probably even better than some therapists, due to his enormous perceptive faculty and tremendous perception.

He didn't need to know how jealousy felt in his body, he observed the symptoms and diagnosed it was jealousy via process of elimination. Just like John didn't need to know how measles felt to diagnose them, he just went to his mental checklist of symptoms. Sherlock probably even sensed feelings as deficiency of his transport, like others did with an aching throat.

The consultant was not the average person, and it wouldn't help to be 'read' like one.

John was also well aware that things that were totally normal for Sherlock might make a therapist think he was lacking empathy, arrogant, attention-seeking or a liar, like he appeared to so many other people, and particularly those who didn't take the time to understand.

Misdiagnosis might be inevitable from Sherlock's POV due to his practical life experience. Was that what he was so afraid off?

If he was, John could understand, he even shared the fear.

"You fear to be misunderstood," John stated.

Sherlock said nothing, but he looked miserable, even with his emotionless mask that his face was at the moment.

"Well, I'm not trying to make you see a therapist. For starters, I just want you to read into EMDR treatment, get some background, learn how it works and what it does and all the facts. All I'm asking is that you consider it. Just the thing itself."

John knew it would be hard to find a good therapist who would do the thing alone, without the sessions to make sure the patient was stable and ready to try EMDR, but he trusted Mycroft to make it happen.

"I already know."

"What?"

"I read a medical textbook about PTSD when you moved in."

"Shit, is everybody doing background reading on this?" John cursed.

Sherlock only frowned, not aware Mary had done the same.

"Okay, that was some years ago and more general. Read about EMDR - in particular - again, with your new experiences, and then reconsider it. It could do a lot good with only a 'bit' effort. I'm not saying it's easy, but I think you need to get a grip on this blood thing. You can't work like that. You can't risk to be confronted with the smell and then get killed because you have a flashback or experience dissociation. I can't go through that again. Please."

Sherlock frowned.

"And this will not just vanish with time, believe me, almost everybody hopes it will, but it won't, often, it gets even worse."

"Understood."

"You'll read into it?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Okay, we'll see how to proceed later, then. For now, we need to prepare the flat, anyway."

"For what?"

"You happen to know what date it is?"

When Sherlock said nothing, John added.

"December 19th."

"No!"

Sherlock's indignation was almost comical.

 

 


	90. Friday, December 27th 2013

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final details of the case solved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made.  
> .  
> I managed to update this story weekly for the past two years. I failed to do so in the past four weeks, I'm very sorry guys, I feel very bad about it.  
> I just couldn't manage to write, it was all too much. Life is a struggle at the moment.  
> Hope you enjoy the new chapter, thank you to everyone who is still with me.

 

 

**Friday, December 27 th 2013**

In the days before Christmas Sherlock and John joined Lestrade at Scotland Yard for a series of interrogation sessions of Ian Alexander, but it was the day after the Christmas holidays that finally brought a change to the situation.

Sherlock had watched the endless efforts to make the man talk and repeatedly tried to convince a desperate Lestrade to let him participate.

Alexander was rarely caring to answer, and if he did, he insulted and taunted the Scotland Yard staff.

It wasn't until John sensed something in Sherlock's attempts to convince the DI that was borderline desperation until he realised that Sherlock must have found something.

John then spoke to Lestrade and that was when Greg finally gave in. But Sherlock had to promise that he'd hold his temper, whatever the man did.

The consultant went in with his usual aura of calm and know-it-all. He asked some questions that made Greg frown because they seemed to have nothing to do with the case.

"I know nothing of relationships with romantic attachments, neither those containing sexuality or love, therefore I need you to elaborate it to me. Have you ever indulged in such an activity?"

Alexander laughed.

"What is this? The seventeenth century? Are you making fun of me?"

"Sorry, I tried to use neutral phrases. Did you have a girlfriend, then?"

John laughed behind the one way glass window, Sherlock's tactic to cause confusion and bewilderment was as successful as ever.

"Who speaks like that? Oh, you're the crazy one, aren't you?"

"You knew before it was me and Dr Watson. When you met us in the stairway, you recognised him."

"I didn't know you were really as nuts as the stupid papers say."

"Believe me, I'm quite nuts… and heartless. So have you enjoyed the torment of domestic bliss in such a way?"

John rolled his eyes. He definitely needed to do an investigation of his own, find out more about Sherlock's view of relationships - before he got married. His friend still seemed to be a bit clueless about it all.

Or was he just playing a role here?

Sherlock proceeded talking non-stop, as it seemed, and finally, at one point, Alexander seemed to have enough to listen to him and decided to add to a conversation that seemed to be absolutely meaningless. By that point the consultant detective had followed a conversation strategy that finally made Alexander believe that he was - in fact - a bit stupid and allowed Ian to believe he was superior.

To everyone's astonishment the man finally started to talk about the absolute nonsense topics Sherlock chose.

Nevertheless, after two hours of chatting, some of the Scotland Yard staff became more and more impatient. Voices were raised against the approach of the 'freak'. But at least Sally - for once - was not one of those who disagreed with the approach.

Lestrade silenced them, explaining that Sherlock was planning something, that he trusted him and that they better listen carefully and try to learn. He only allowed those in to listen that showed the necessary respect.

Another half hour later Sherlock suddenly stepped onto his chair, then on the desk in front of the suspect. With a swift movement he disabled the smoke alarm and stepped down again.

Alexander looked almost distressed by the irrational behaviour of the man.

The detective then took out his cigarettes and lit one.

"What are you doing? Planning to bribe me with cigarettes? I won't talk to you," Ian exploded.

"This is more like the cigarette _after_ … I wasn't planning on offering one to you. Oh, but that's rude, isn't it? Since I was told to behave…"

Sherlock offered the box to the perpetrator, who slapped it out of his hand.

"After what?"

"After you told me everything I needed to know. After a successful… interaction."

"I told you nothing!"

"Yes you did. For example that your original goal was to convince the ladies you kidnapped what a caring and lovely partner you are and that you wanted them to stay."

"What? You stupid arse know nothing!"

A tirade of insults followed and when John watched Sherlock through the window he realised that the consultant shifted gear and was now collecting proves for the theories he had developed during the last hours. This was when the deducing _really_ started, after Ian thought it was already over.

As soon as Alexander stopped yelling Sherlock inserted another little detail of a theory and the man was boiled so soft after days of silence and now this, he just reacted. Human nature once more working against the suspect, Sherlock using it as skilled and subtle as ever.

 

Another hour later, Sherlock had smoked the whole package and Ian was yelling for his lawyer, something he had not asked for before, as if to underline his innocence.

Sherlock left him be, knowing well that this was the point where to stop, it was necessary to follow procedures.

John and Lestrade joined him outside and they went to Lestrade's office, several people watched them and followed, but stayed outside the open door.

"So, what did you find out?"

"Do I really have to?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, Sherlock, enlighten us," Lestrade said the same moment John ordered, "Take us through."

"This is a classic example of a person taking a former lover hostage because he's emotionally unable to let go. I assume there was a first victim we don't know about and it was a former girlfriend of the man."

Whispers started outside the room.

"Go on," John encouraged him, leaning against Greg's desk.

"The feeling of loss mutated into the irrational thought that it is possible to convince the victim to reconsider resuming their relationship. Therefore it is necessary that she listens, since she's not ready to do it, he forces her by rendering her unable to move. He doesn't really know why he killed them, he just wanted them to stay."

"Wow," Lestrade made.

"The man is intelligent, he's well informed about the Stockholm syndrome and Nielsen, and he tried to use it for his purposes. The idea is old, it's even portrayed in Beauty and the beast, where a young girl falls in love with her captor."

"What?" Greg laughed in disbelief, "You have seen Beauty and the beast? Are you sure this is what happened there?"

"The first half hour, it was a horrible. Then I decided to manipulated the video recorder to evade watching it further."

Now Greg really laughed, John couldn't hide his grin as well.

"Well, I assume Ian was being manipulated by the now mummified man in his youth. Clever as he is, he in hindsight - at least partially - understood what had happened. He learned how to manipulate people himslef, did to others what had been done to himself. The idea to enforce his girlfriend to stay must have developed a few years ago. Either she escaped or he got rid of her. After more futile tries to form new relationships he tried it again the hard way."

"Why the male victims?"

"I assume he wondered if his lack of success was due to the fact that he wasn't addressing the right 'audience'. He might have wanted to figure out his own sexual orientation, not entirely sure if he was straight."

Sherlock went over to Greg's coffee machine, poured himself a cup and added six teaspoons of sugar.

"He was expecting his victims to 'change over' to him. So he treated them well - at least in his eyes - for a period of time and then let the drug wear off. He expected them to love him by then, when they didn't and fought him, he killed them. Probably more as a punishment than to get rid of them."

Sherlock downed half the cup in one go.

"That's… insane," Greg frowned.

"Bit, yes."

"Any ideas how to prove it?"

"I'll make a list what to check for, your psychiatrist needs to analyse all videos of these interrogations again, especially my interview, to figure out the signs and proof it."

"Right."

"And fetch that book about Nielsen, it must be in evidence. Saw it in one of the shelves in the bunker."

"Shit, the serial killer?"

Sherlock nodded, drank the rest of his coffee and then picked up his coat.

"Good day then," the consultant slipped into it and headed out of the office.

"Er…," Lestrade made, perplexed about the sudden end of the conversation.

"I'll make sure the list contains details. See you," and John was out, too.

"Catch you later," Lestrade followed him through the door.

Greg looked around and twenty astonished faces stared at him.

"Go to work, people, proof it!" he ordered and the large room was suddenly filled with movement.

.

In the cab on the way home, John addressed the success, but Sherlock was not ready to hear any praise.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock spat, "I know quite well I failed with this case. I found out nothing over extended periods of time, I added almost nothing to the investigation and I failed to observe. Everyone added tiny bits and we are lucky they added up and it turned out this way. This was the worst case-solving I ever did. Faulty, slow, blindsided, stupid. I have been working on an _Anderson level_ , and I despise it. I am also not sure if my final deductions are worth anything. So please don't insult me by telling me I did good, when I know I did lousy work."

John's heart sank, this was a bitter summary.

"Well, you're a bit under the weather. No one can function perfectly all the time. You need to give yourself time to heal and respect that you're recovering. You've solved it, the girl lives," he tried to encourage his friend.

"Yess."

"How about we do some mind-palace-maintenance tonight?"

Sherlock sighed and nodded.

.

When John was preparing a dinner later, the doorbell rang.

"God, why doesn't he just use the key?" Sherlock complained.

"It's Lestrade then?" Mary was setting the table.

"Obviously," Sherlock stood up from the sofa and adjusted his blue dressing gown, it looked very crumpled.

Moments later he and Lestrade entered the living room.

"Hello."

"Oh, Greg, hi," John greeted.

"That smells good," the DI said.

"You're welcome to eat with us," Mary invited him.

"What did you find out?" Sherlock ignored the social niceties.

"Thanks Mary, but I just ate a very late lunch… Well, an hour after you guys left Colonel Alexander came in. He was ready to make a statement, would you believe?"

"Oh, wow," John raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah. He confessed that some time ago, he found out something was happening. He hadn't had contact to his son in years, but at some point realised his son has spoken the truth in his youth – about being aboused. He had a bad conscience about not listening to him and tried to reconnect to Ian. But although he offered help Ian was unapproachable. The father tried multiple times, and one time he - accidentally - ran into his son's victim."

"Lucas White," John assumed from the doorway to the kitchen.

"Correct. He made a friend go in, save White and destroy all the evidence. Didn't do it himself, but helped by driving the car. His son never knew."

"Interesting," Sherlock muttered, he had reclined on the sofa again.

"Sherlock, eating, remember?" John said, carrying a large pan into the living room.

They all sat down and the conversation paused until everyone had a portion and Greg a beer.

"Go on," the consultant urged impatiently, not touching his food.

"Apparently, he tried to contact his son repeatedly, but he vanished, must then have moved to the mummified man's house or the bunker already."

"Who attacked the woman in the hospital? Do you know yet?" Mary wanted to know.

"Ian paid someone to take her out, not ready to risk doing it himself. He didn't reveal the name, though. Either he is afraid or loyal, though I can't imagine he has any friends at all."

"Afraid," Sherlock stated.

"Why?"

"That man is not loyal to anyone, no matter what," Sherlock said.

"You're probably right."

.

Later that night Sherlock was again on the sofa, reading in one of the three books about PTSD and EMDR Mary had brought, she had almost kicked him into starting to read. They had decided against a mind palace session since it was quite late when had Lestrade left.

When Mary was on her way to bed she passed Sherlock. But then she stopped, went back the three steps and placed a brief kiss on Sherlock's brow.

"Night," she hurried to get away, a mischievous grin on her face.

Sherlock jerked upright, eyes wide.

John almost fell out off his armchair with laughter.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Your wife just kissed me!"

"I saw that."

"What's so funny?"

"Your expression!"

"Why did she do that?"

"Think, Sherlock."

"Isn't that supposed to be rude, kissing someone else than you?"

"Not as long as she does it like _that_."

John giggled and heard Mary laugh on the stairs, too.

Sherlock obviously understood it was some kind of joke he failed to understand, but since their tone was neither teasing nor mean decided to just take it as gracious as he could, collect more data and lay back down.

It took a while though before he started to read again.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:  
> I assumed since Sherlock kissed Mary in the end of SoT (holding her head in both hands and on her forehead) something must have happened before to 'allow' him kissing her in such a parental way, this is my hypothesis on how it started.  
> Thank you for reading. Feedback appreciated.


	91. EMDR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bumpy road to EMDR.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made.

 

 

It took until late January for John to carefully help Sherlock to the understanding that trying EMDR was a good idea, arguing that they had already done lots of things during their Mindpalace-sessions that would happen in therapy anyway and therefore could as well give it a try with the aid of a professional.

Unfortunately understanding it might be useful and actually deciding to do therapy were two completely different things.

So John spend days trying to figure out what Sherlock needed to accept a downgraded version of therapy.

It turned out one of the massive obstacles was the fact that Sherlock was sure there was no hope of therapy being beneficial if John wasn't there to moderate and translate, but he was not able to state the fact itself or ask his friend to come.

Sherlock reacted with tantrums and spite to John's tries to figure this out, but finally the doctor had understood there was _something_ seriously blocking the therapy-negotiations.

Once the fact was out in the open it went a bit easier.

.

"It takes place at Baker Street," Sherlock stated suddenly, while they were at a crime scene and nobody else in hearing range.

John needed several moments to even guess what he might be referring to.

The 'therapy conversation' then stretched over days and Sherlock only made one remark in a day, which was completely out of context at that moment, not elaborating further.

Maybe this was what he needed.

Talking about it directly seemed too difficult. If John started a conversation about the topic after such a remark Sherlock made a step back, not broaching the subject for days, so the doctor started to just catalogue.

.

A few days later Sherlock broadcasted another term out of nowhere during a cab ride.

"You do the movements for the EMDR."

"All right," John answered.

Being the one who did the physical work, which consisted of providing the necessary movement the patient needed to focus on during the sessions was not such a great deal.*

.

"No pity talk or statements of compassionateness."

John knew many therapists did try to appear understanding and made remarks to make the client feel better.

Instead of changing topics immediately, Sherlock elaborated.

"The idea to pay somebody for pretending mental fondness is pathetic."

John understood that, he never liked it either.

.

A few days later at breakfast.

"No talking about emotions and... stuff."

John actually bit his lips to hold back his impulse to giggle - it was Sherlock being Sherlock  and quite absurd considering the topic.

He didn't answer to that one but made a mental note to camouflage the thing as much as possible.

His friend's line between talking about sensations and talking about feelings was very different to the ones of _normal_ people anyway. Sherlock considered a lot of things being sensations everybody else would describe as feelings. John decided they could just address and then approach it all as sensations.

Several tantrums on Sherlock's side and two weeks later, Mycroft informed them he had finally found one therapist - with a high enough security clearance - who agreed to do it on Sherlock's exceeding long list of terms.

John had expected it to be difficult, but had trusted Mycroft to find someone. The older Holmes had narrowed down the choice himself, much to John's disapproval and he insisted on seeing the rejected candidates' interviews. Due to security reasons all conversations had been taped.

In the end he had to recognise Mycroft's decisions made sense.

Two had obviously just agreed because of the money and seemed overall indifferent and jaded and the third wouldn't work well with Sherlock although she had the right motivation.

That decision made, all it took was to make an appointment with the remaining Dr. Winkelbach.

Since Sherlock still had issues doing the first step he didn't make the call for days.

Finally John decided he needed a gentle kick in the right direction and took over.

A few days later he asked Sherlock for another mind palace session before he went to work,  the other man agreed to do it in the early evening.

In the afternoon he informed Sherlock that they'd have a spectator for the session and if it was okay for the therapist to join them as long as he didn't speak.

Sherlock was not amused, but agreed, much to John's surprise. But the doctor later understood this was probably one of the occasions where Sherlock accepted his override, maybe even needed it.

The session went without incidents and the next day John asked Sherlock if he was allowed to give Winkelbach a bit more background, he didn't like the idea to talk behind his friend's back, Mycroft had done enough damage by that in the past.

So the first three sessions were just the two of them going to the mind palace to do further work there while the therapist was present and observing. The man neither interfered nor spoke.

Sherlock ignored him completely, not even greeting him, but he was a professional and not put off by that.

The next three sessions were slow and chewy, both, John and the therapist gently tried to make Sherlock _talk_ , but it was little use.

In one of the debriefings Winkelbach and John had started to do in private the therapist wondered if Sherlock even understood how this was supposed to work and John agreed that it might be one of the obstacles that Sherlock knew too much of the theory and too little of how he was supposed to act.

The doctors then started to prepare the sessions together, leaving the task of choosing the topics and making the detective talk to the John, who used the knowledge about issues he had gained in the weeks prior.

After Winkelbach had fully accepted that Sherlock only accepted him as long as he instructed them what to do, things became kind of smoother.

Nevertheless Sherlock still saw him as an intruder.

But John gently dragged Winkelbach into the conversations, addressing him, asking him things and they carefully managed to establish a normal conversation over time.

They spend most of the sessions using EMDR, sometimes the therapist encouraged them to work out strategies that would help Sherlock in case he was trigged or handle situations that were difficult for him. But overall Sherlock preferred to work on developing those in private.

Making the detective join a session when he wasn't in the right mood was no use, so one of five sessions was cancelled because Sherlock was refusing to participate.

John remembered that it had been difficult for him, too, to speak about issues when it was time for the appointment, instead of when _he_ was in the right mood, the problem was showing or he was having a hard time.

Sherlock of course just ventured to do as he pleased, when he found he wasn't ready, nothing took place, but everybody agreed he endeavoured overall.

Also John was glad they were finally doing it and hesitated to do anything that might change Sherlock's mind or push him too hard. He also made sure to handle things when they occurred, as he remembered vividly how nasty it was to be ready to talk after a night of bad dreams but the next appointment was three days away.

Also, it appeared that Sherlock was usually more up to talking about something directly than in hindsight, when he had time to think about it himself and lock it away with his own conclusions attached; which often were neither the healthy ones nor the ones bringing forth the matter in a emotionally resolving way. So they did spontaneous session that compensated the skipped ones.

John was relieved that the therapist was apparently a very competent man, and he soon trusted him more than he ever had trusted Ella.

Winkelbach was more like a teacher, explained a lot and never beating around the bush; he was kind and easygoing, used little social phrases and was a strong firm presence in the room.

Sherlock of course was not amused about most of his ideas, but treated him with more respect than John had expected, probably because he explained so much, this was an aspect Ella had not bothered with often.

Sherlock's ability to stay relatively calm on the outside and observe what happened, e.g. during a flashback, helped enormously, though it left him utterly exhausted in the aftermath. Maybe these two factors were why the sessions were oddly different from how John had experienced therapy.

Sherlock's treatment felt more open, less constricted.

But in contrast to John - who had gone through months of serious health issues prior to his PTSD therapy, which numbed his sense of feeling embarrassed - the detective had real problems with being seen in weak moments by anyone else than John. This made several sessions quiet short when Sherlock clammed up or couldn't relax. On some occasions he was so tense he almost passed out from the stress or the pain that followed a flashback or an episode of dissociation.

In this state he wouldn't allow Winkelbach anywhere near him then.

Sherlock's health was slowly improving, though the fact that his transport was not working on its full capacity made him moody every now and then.

But overall Sherlock's respect for the treatment grew slowly, especially when EMDR started to show the first signs of the expected result: blood causing less stress.

Although he never really talked to the therapist about his feelings or most intimate thoughts, he talked to _John_ about _some_ of the latter, usually one or two days after a session. He masked the topic skilfully, so it took John some time to understand what they were really talking about.

It usually started with questions, some oddly childlike about how this or that felt for John, and some were about getting feedback in his usual 'not good?' style.

John knew his friend had issues connecting his own emotions to generally excepted verbalisations and had informed the therapist right in the beginning.

They found a way to make Sherlock describe his _sensations_ then, as expected, it worked a bit better.

The doctor also knew he was an important part of the therapy, but he carefully tried to move a bit more to the background to elicit Sherlock, not playing the mediator all the time, but his opinion was repeatedly inquired by the detective and he often asked John to 'translate' what the therapist wanted.

John learned a lot about his own behaviour, too. For example, he had already understood that he had brought Mary into the picture before Sherlock was ready and that his former flatmate had wanted his fiancé there for John's sake. She had been the only one who understood that it was too early, for all of them. 

The past months had been rough, but maybe it had needed to go exactly as it had done, if the bumps hadn't been in the road, they might have stayed in that half cooked process of letting Sherlock repress his issues until it would have been to late.

Maybe it had been a necessary evil; Sherlock needed to hit bottom like this to be ready to accept help and both of them to understand the severity of the situation, even to trust each other again, and heal.

Sherlock was 'hardcore' with so many things, he just couldn't do it any other way. Often, he was lost because he couldn't figure things out the normal way, and he needed to be gently shoved into the right direction.

It was harder for him than for everyone else to turn things around and change his patterns. Which was kind of bad, but that aspect of his personality was on the other hand one that made him very successful in other things, especially in detective work and chemistry.

John was glad his friend had given up trying to hide things any longer. It was good his breakdown or surrender - whatever one might want to call it - had happened now, when John was around to catch him, or better help him catch himself.

Good, that he had been there to soften the impact a bit and that it had brought back trust on both sides.

It would get better from now on.

They also did sessions in the mind palace on their own, especially with things Sherlock didn't want to share with anyone, or with boring things like cleaning up, extinguishing the last smouldering fires to which they finally had found a solution. They also meticulously stored and maintained the new strategies to cope with the traumatic memories.

With John's assistance Sherlock wrote several new programs, that were supposed to help him when things became too intense. The detective himself had suggested to create those instructions but the therapist didn't really knew what he needed or how to actually try to do it.

It worked, especially after Sherlock translated some of the 'programs' into visual mechanisms to free his working memory.

During one of those private mind palaces sessions Sherlock made a hissing noise and then giggled.

"What was that?" John wanted to know.

"I built in a _mechanism_."

"It took you three hours to build it?" John wanted to know.

Sherlock had kept his silence for that long after he had told John that he was free to read a book while he was at work, he needed to do something John couldn't help with anyway.

"It is rather… comprehensive."

"What did you do?"

"I installed an hydraulic system throughout the palace that produces air currents when needed."

"What for?"

"To blow air into my face as soon as something unwelcome arises."

"Oh, to ground you, create sensory input?"

"Obviously. And to provide fresh air in case of difficult smells."

"Right. To blow away bad scents? Good idea."

John asked Sherlock to describe how it worked and it reminded John of the 'Strandbeest' mechanisms which he had researched online after learning Sherlock had models of them in his mind.

"Wrong comparison. Right principle. It actually looks and works like the pneumatic tube mail of New York City in the first half of the 20th century. Ask Wikipedia**."

"Since it's already there I'm just wondering if I might put it to use for other things as well," the detective mused.

"Like?"

"Propelling a boot on a stick that follows me around to get my behind kicked as soon as I fail to keep my mind from wandering into dissociation or panic." 

There was a moment of silence after Sherlock delivered this in a sober and reflective tone.

This was when John finally lost it and started to howl with laughter. It was the first time they really laughed in a very long time, imagining the scene Sherlock obviously borrowed from some childhood comic and had added details to the fictional mechanism.

Only a week before this they had finally managed to connect the new mind palace level to the original old ones and then rebooted the palace. This enabled Sherlock to use it in the way he had done in the past.

Therefore installing the system had taken quite some time.

The restored mind palace boosted the tortured man's recovery more than John had dared to hope for.

The time they spent in there also led to talking about Sherlock's time away, and despite the detective's denial, he was actually working through some issues by telling John about them, or better by minutely answering his questions during the palace sessions.

On other times, though, it was even unnerving how the detective analysed every tiny bit of the events, not able to let go. He talked and thought about small aspects for hours and John couldn't make him move on. Such things also used to come up again later, again and again and again.

This was surely productive for solving crimes, but slowed down Sherlock's recovery immensely, it also fuelled the depression.

Initially it was difficult for John to identify if Sherlock's thoughts were analysing a case or running down a depressive vortex for hours.

Sherlock _was_ reviewing those quite frequently but he didn't really understand the necessity to let them go - or he just couldn't.

At least the detective allowed him to interfere as well as aiding him with pushing unimportant thoughts away, but it tedious and not working well.

So they did their best to distract Sherlock, the same thing they had done from the beginning. Mycroft went to great lengths to help his little brother, and since _John_ pushed his friend into accepting it, Sherlock's acceptance grew.

Greg came over more often than usual and they were all glad Sherlock honoured their efforts, though some of them only under protest or to please John, but that was good as long as it worked.

Although the simple fact of the latter, to please John, was still a cause for worry. Sherlock didn't do things to _please_ others… it was new and it was oddly eerie. When asked the detective stated he had to catch up with two missed years of occasional agreeing with John and that is was therefore only appearing he was doing this frequently. The blatant evasion of the topic made John roll his eyes.

From John's point of view it turned out to be necessary to agree on a codeword for situations in Sherlock needed to get out. The first problem was for him to notice such a situation, it seemed to take forever. Then Sherlock refused to use it, still convinced enduring a situation would benefit him. Or maybe it was a combination of both from the beginning.

That was until he almost puked on a crime scene. He made it outside just in time.

"See? You now understand why we need a code? You almost contaminated the crime scene," John criticised the fail to prevent this, "You're lucky Donovan didn't see this."

"Well, that was embarrassing…" Sherlock agreed, shoving fallen leaves over the puddle.

He took the handkerchief John offered.

Only after this Sherlock started to use the codeword.

They had to excuse themselves three times during the four cases that followed. But the more the EMDR sessions showed effect, the less often the consultant needed to it, although there were situations that really stressed him.

Leaving John out of sight caused him trouble, too. The bonfire was still haunting both their nightmares and Sherlock seemed to sense danger in every dark corner, something that had probably saved his life repeatedly during his hunt, but was now quite hindering. He refused to try to bring down his attention on the matter though, augmenting the issue wasn't solved at all.

Over time Sherlock's deducing sped up once more, his crime work improved. His thinking slowly normalised when it came to analyse, plan, observe and solve crimes due to the fact that not most of his brain power was occupied by the traumatic events and keeping the memories at bay.

Gradually, he was returning into his usual self, much to everyone's relief.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * to understand this you should know that the therapist usually moves his finger from the left to the right an back while the client follows the finger with his eyes and 'works' on his issues, but it's not really important how or who or what creates the movement, the therapist guides the sessions, which is actually very important. Ask the internet how EMDR works for further details how the movements look like.
> 
> ** If you're interested, google 'pneumatic tube mail New York City' and read the Wikipedia-article, it's quite an interesting topic.


	92. The Crypt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John manage to do another painful thing to help the detective on his recovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made.
> 
> Long chapter ahead.  
> This fic will go out with a bang, so brace for impact.

One afternoon in March Mycroft was at the flat when John came home, probably to see how his little brother was doing.

John interrupted their bickering, which was obviously kept at a level of hidden fondness by the older Holmes.

"Mycroft, I'd like to ask you for a favour," John addressed the older Holmes after they had greeted each other.

Sherlock seemed alarmed.

"Yes?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

"Could you find a body for us in an Eastern Europe plant and arrange a proper burial?"

While he spoke, the doctor kept his focus on Sherlock, who gulped and hastily turned his attention back to the newspaper that was in front of him on the dinner table.

"Oh?" Mycroft seemed to know little about the events in the manufactory building, "Care to update me on what happened there and why?"

When Sherlock didn't reply John tried to summarise what his friend had told him about the events* - in a very superficial way.

Lately they had named these events the _plant-memories_ , they were still a main source for triggers and therefore a sensible topic and the need to have a short and neutral word for it had arisen.

When John finished his explanation, Mycroft nodded.

"How important is this? Is it necessary to risk causing an international incident?"

"No," Sherlock and John stated simultaneously.

"I'll see what I can do, given that the body is still there, of course."

Sherlock said nothing else, but was very quiet after that.

.

Overall he rarely spoke for the next two days.

When John thought his friend had enough time to think about it he addressed the topic.

"Er, in case it _is_ possible to recover a body, would you like to go to the funeral?"

"I don't know."

"Well, you can decide later. I didn't do this to cause strain. You know that, right? I think you need this. Closure, I mean," John tried to explain, a bit unsure if his friend was angry that he had requested this without speaking to him first.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said in an almost shy tone.

.

**Some Wednesday in April**

A month later Mycroft visited John at the surgery and informed him that the homeless man could not be found.

The body had vanished, as had his scarce belongings. The plant had been cleaned up and there wasn't even blood residue or any other usable evidence of what had happened there. The only think that was found was an area where the ground seemed to have been cleaned with high pressure water blasting, where the concrete was as clean as newly casted in a rough circle at the position Sherlock depicted as the murder scene.

Mycroft brought pictures of the location and the surroundings John only knew from Sherlock's descriptions.

It made his heart heavy, touched something sore in him to see the images.

He asked the older Holmes if he could keep them for a bit and after his shift was finished,  he took his time to view them in detail before he went home.

Over the past weeks he and Sherlock had worked in the mind palace on dissolving the dark masses of bad experiences.

Recently more and more objects Sherlock had plucked out of the hives were connected to the events in the plant and the detective only hesitantly shared memories of the days he had spent there.

John assumed that the centrepiece of each quivering mass must be a queen bee / main memory, and one of those major issues was definitely connected to the events that surrounded the homeless man's death.

One centrepiece they had already found, it was the torture and the dungeon, the man in charge behind the villain who had beaten Sherlock.

Together they had hunted him down in the mind palace, which was kind of an epic session they would both remember for a long time.

It turned out that man was the ghost presence the detective had sensed the palace, the one who had flooded one of the levels, burned down another and manipulated events and structures.

There were some other major topics that John assumed were in the core of the remaining three hives, at least they were sure now how many there were altogether.

The doctor could only guess what the other two remaining main topics were.

One of this guesses was that one of them might be related with Sherlock having to kill in self-defence.

John had tried to ask about that, to find out if something like that had happened, but his friend had rejected categorically to even speak a single word about it. Therefore John suspected it might be the biggest queen bee of them all.

.

That evening they were alone in 221b and John asked Sherlock do to another mind palace session. Usually, he just suggested them and Sherlock agreed or declined, depending on his mood and readiness to go through difficult topics.

"I'd like to do… some remembering, you know, like laying some things to rest. I think we should do that. It might help you to move on."

Sherlock hesitated, then started to deduce when John didn't elaborate immediately.

"I see. Mycroft called you and told you that the body of the homeless man who saved me was gone."

"Yeah, well… he did. The plant had been cleaned of all evidence when his undercover team arrived. Therefore there won't be a funeral."

John made a pause, to see how Sherlock reacted. When he said nothing, he continued.

"I think we should… maybe remember that he saved your life and that he died. I hate that he did, but I'm so very lucky to have you back. I think we should kind of give him a service."

John was well aware that he was translating an element of his own therapy for Sherlock. He had been asked to imagine to lay certain things to rest, give them a resting place.

"No," Sherlock bluntly refused.

"Why not?"

The other man just shook his head.

"So you wouldn't have joined me if the body had been found and I wanted to go to his funeral?"

"That's different."

"No, it isn't. I'm aware this is difficult, but I think it will be worth it. Does that mean you would've joined me then?"

"Yes," Sherlock's voice was low and he looked away but he answered without hesitation.

"Sit down," John directed his friend to the sofa and sat down on the coffee table, opposite of him.

Internally, he rolled his eyes about himself, the bad habit of sitting on furniture which were not made to sit on seemed to have rubbed off on him.

He gently shoved Sherlock back, who lifted his legs on the sofa with a sigh.

"There you go. Close your eyes."

"You said the palace had no 'outside' right? No garden, no forest?"

"Correct."

"Okay. How about you create one?"

"Don't be absurd… What for?"

"I think we should do a service for that man who saved your life, as I said. Therefore a burial place would be good, preferable slightly away from the palace itself, so it is safe."

"Moriarty's cell is inside, too, and he _is_ actually dangerous."

"What are you trying to say? That we should bury him 'inside'?"

"There is a crypt."

"What?" John was surprised, "What's there?"

Sherlock remained silent for a moment, then tentatively added, "Things from my past that were lost."

"Oh."

So the concept was not new to Sherlock, he had virtually buried things or people there before.

"Care to describe it?" John carefully probed.

"Underground hallway with deep large white alcoves on both sides, pale marble," Sherlock explained.

"Was there a real place that inspired how it looks, so that I can better imagine what it is like?" John wanted to know.

A few weeks ago Sherlock had told him that the physical appearance of many areas of the palace had been harvested by him from places that were significant or that he liked. The doctor was stunned to learn that there was a corridor that looked like the ones of the _Roland Kerr College_ , where the cabbie had taken Sherlock, from the building John had been in when he shot the serial killer.**

"Obviously."

John finally got that his friend didn't want to elaborate or share the source.

"Sorry, didn't mean to be nosy… you don't have to tell me. This is your place and it's okay to keep this to yourself. Is there space for one more? Would it be the proper place to… do this?"

"I don't know. Maybe… I'll make another sepulchre."

This was evidently difficult for the detective, and John now wondered if he had been too hasty.

"Would you prefer to mourn somewhere else?" he asked, carefully.

Sherlock slowly exhaled and lifted his left forearm over his closed eyes. The doctor already knew this posture, it was kind of protective and signalled Sherlock felt exposed right now, he didn't want his face to be seen, needed a bit privacy.

John saw him bit his lip and waited.

After some time the detective did a deeper breath, then spoke.

"This place would be the right one, it _is_ meant for burials."

"Right. How do you proceed when you lay someone to rest there?"

"I don't know…" Sherlock seemed lost and his breathing shallow, his posture tense.

John realised the crypt must contain some serious mental wounds and sore spots from Sherlock's past.

"It's alright. It's gonna be okay. We won't do something you can't handle and we can leave if this becomes too much," John said what the therapist had repeatedly told Sherlock during  difficult sessions.

Underlining the aspect of giving Sherlock a choice - in contrast to being at the mercy of someone or something - was an important aspect of trauma therapy. Since a main cause of the development of PTSD was the aspect of being vulnerable and having control taken away, it was crucial that Sherlock was reminded off this.

He had been stripped of control in several situations during his time away, but the most severe seemed to be the torture.

The subjective regaining of control was essential and John tried to give him a choice about the psychological things whenever there was a chance.

The code words they had agreed on if things became too much were one aspect of that ability to control, at least after Sherlock understood it was not a sign of weakness to actually use them.

"I don't even really remember what he looked like, it's all so hazy and…" Sherlock chocked.

"Hang on, slow down! Don't do this. Don't trigger yourself by jumping right into the memories."

"I… he kept me warm and made me drink and… he held me and…" Sherlock continued.

Shit! They had talked about the plant and what had happened there in one of the therapy sessions, but these details were new to John.

The doctor gently tapped on Sherlock's collar bone to ground him, and to show concern.

"You don't have to talk about this now if you don't want to. We're here to give him a proper burial service."

"He touched me and it was awful. I panicked, he smelled like…" Sherlock stopped, maybe John's words had needed time to sink in. "But _remembering_ a person is what is done during a service, those are the only memories I have."

"I understand, but stay in the present with me, don't go to the plant… Er, I could say something, kind of an eulogy. Do you want me to?"

"No," Sherlock breathed.

Then he remained silent.

John felt excluded and feared things might get out of hand.

"What are you doing? What's happening? Is there something you want to do?"

"Nothing. Please, shut up."

John did.

This had happened in other sessions before, Sherlock was struggling with something he could neither describe, nor explain or deal with. He needed time to sort it out, whatever it was.

The doctor just waited.

It took almost ten minutes, in which he carefully monitored his friend's reactions and breathing.

Doing this stressed Sherlock more than he had expected, his breathing was heavy when he finally spoke.

"I… made… I created a coffin and laid him to rest in the last alcove on the left," Sherlock explained, he sounded exhausted and fragile.     

John winced, this was not what he had had in mind.

"Jesus. Sorry mate, but it was _not_ supposed to be this… graphic. You should protect yourself from bad memories, not create new ones."

Maybe he should have explained better, Sherlock's hardcore approaches often caused interruptions in the therapy sessions, too.

Sometimes John wondered if his friend possessed any self-protective mechanisms at all, especially when it was clear the sensible thing to do hadn't even been on Sherlock's list of possible options.

"What do you mean? Burying someone means burying. It's always horrible and always bad and always painful… It's what a funeral is. It's always graphic. There's no way for it to be not graphic, except when you don't go there," Sherlock stated.

"Yes, well, but I aimed more like in commemorating," John said, "You galloped ahead, did it the hard way."

"Problem? I did what laying someone to rest means," Sherlock's voice was stronger now.

"Right. Anyway, I'd like to participate and say some things, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't stop him this time, so John continued.

He had thought about things he could say but never finished an actual eulogy and now said the things he had in mind.

He wanted to express his gratefulness and realised he couldn't without saying what it meant to him that Sherlock was back, so he said exactly that.

He explained why he loved Sherlock like a brother and how hard it had been that he had died and why he was so grateful that he had him back and that the man had saved his life.

It was a good opportunity to also make sure Sherlock understood his affection. John wanted him to know how much he meant to him.

Several times his voice almost broke, but he managed. He knew Sherlock was right, things like these always hurt, a lot.

When he finished, Sherlock's breathing was shallow, this was apparently very hard for him.

"Would you like to add something?" John asked gently.

Sherlock just shook his head.

"You put a stone on the grave?"

Sherlock silently nodded. That was when John realised he couldn't or wouldn't speak.

He had to guide his friend out of the crypt and make sure he didn't linger there in the wrong way, utilising yes or no questions.

Yes, it was supposed to be a place of remembrance but not supposed to be a trigger.

He waited for a bit longer before he asked, "Are you finished here, can we go back? I mean leave the palace?"

Sherlock hesitated a moment but then nodded once more.

John waited for his friend to resurface in an obvious way, but Sherlock just stayed immobile with his arm over his eyes, except for putting an effort in breathing slower and deeper.

To show support and concern, John rested his hand on Sherlock's raised elbow for a moment.

"Will you be okay?"

Sherlock nodded once more.

The doctor stood up, he decided he needed to do _something_ … preferable prepare some dessert and give Sherlock some privacy.

He still didn't know how to comfort Sherlock in situations like this, neither did the other man.

At least they had worked out _some_ comforting things during the past weeks, but they all seemed not the right ones for this moment.

When John had decided against dessert and returned to the living room with two mugs of tea Sherlock had turned on the sofa and was now lying with his back to the room, curled into a foetal position.

John frowned with worry. His friend was miserable and he could do nothing.

He put the mug down on the coffee table so Sherlock would find it when he turned around, though he didn't look as if that might happen any time soon.

When John headed back to the kitchen to clean up the dishes he heard Sherlock mumble.

"Thank you."

John smiled sadly and said, "You're welcome."

This mental journey had been demanding but John hoped that in the long run it would be worth it, for the sake of Sherlock's peace of mind.

The detective didn't move for the rest of the evening and when John went to bed he rested his hand on Sherlock's top shoulder and wished him good night.

Brief touches like this were actually one of the gestures of comfort Sherlock had officially allowed John to use during one of the sessions, to ground him or to just show his sympathy for Sherlock's distress.

"Wake me if you… need anything."

This time Sherlock didn't ask why he would need John, this time he said, "Yes, John. Thank you," in a thick and chocked voice.

The doctor understood this was not only gratitude for accompanying him to the virtual funeral, but for everything John had done to help his friend since his return, for his assistance on the road of recovery and for his patience in general.

John tapped his shoulder to signal his understanding, then headed upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * This refers to one of Sherlock's earlier flashbacks, which happened in Chapter 15 to 17.  
> **I based this on the fact that the corridors of the scenes of John storming to Sherlock's aid in ASiP and the Redbeard scene in HLV, and the staircases from both the case and the mind palace are the same ones, in my understanding of it this is the only explanation.


	93. Wednesday one week later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Queen Bee makes an appearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other characters mentioned belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal enjoyment and to improve my English; no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands, and no profit is being made.

 

 

**Wednesday one week later**

That night Sherlock had the first bad nightmare in days.

At least that was what John assumed was happening when he heard ominous noises from Sherlock's room.

The detective had retreated into his room early, explaining he was tired. Since he looked really knackered John hadn't doubted it.

The consultant had become increasingly restless and tense during the past few days, even nervous and maybe a bit jittery. Overall he was also quite uncommunicative about it and John needed to pry every word out of him.

The doctor was sure a combination of the fact that therapy was hard work, a new case and the lack of sleep was the cause. His friend was stressed and getting food into him or convince him to try to sleep was far more difficult again lately.

Recently, Sherlock's senses seemed to be even more hypersensitive than on the average day.

Last Sunday the detective had an argument with Mary about Tupperware. He stated that he wouldn't eat foot that had been stored in plastic containers. John knew that his former flatmate preferred to use pottery or glass containers and cover them wish dishes or fitting covers. But they had never spoken about the reasons for this and John had never asked.

While listening to them discussing the topic the doctor tried to remember if the occasions in which Sherlock had refused food coincided with those he had stored the food in plastic containers.

But it was too long ago and futile to even try to remember.

After Mary had understood that for Sherlock things tasted different in a bad way after being stored in plastic they agreed to use the glass bowls in the future. This underlined the problems Sherlock had with his painfully intense sensual input.

This night, before John headed to bed, he had checked on his friend via the tablet computer he still used now and then to make sure Sherlock was okay at night.

A short time later, when the former soldier made his round - checking if all the doors were locked - he heard the other man moan and then something clattered to the ground.

All the things they discussed in therapy seemed to have rattled things loose Sherlock had carefully and deeply stored away, but they where now unleashed and roaming through his unconscious mind when he tried to sleep.

At least the mind palace was no longer affected by them.

When John didn't get an answer after knocking, he entered the bedroom and saw his friend on his bed, the duvet half on the ground, kicked it off.

Although Sherlock wasn't covered in anything he seemed to fight something.

He was not only wearing his long-sleeved t-shirt, but also his pyjama bottoms inside out, and they were a dishevelled mess. His movements weren't carried out, it was more like jerks and brief tries to roll over.

Sherlock breathed through clenched teeth and every muscle in his body seemed to be tensed up.

"Sherlock? It's me. Wake up."

The last times the detective had been caught up in bad dreams he had been quite hard to wake, so John stepped closer, expecting he'd need to shake him awake.

But he hadn't even touched Sherlock when he - with a strangled, half chocked scream - leaped out of the bed and stormed into John's direction.

The doctor didn't expect it and therefore the attack caught him extremely unprepared.

Sherlock shoved him away with a force that knocked the breath out of John's lungs and he collided - right shoulder first - with the wall.

John's hip made hard contact with the doorknob, but luckily his head missed the large picture frame that held the periodic table by inches; he stumbled nevertheless, and his left hand was used to prevent his face from hitting the ground.

Badly surprised, he gasped about the sheer force Sherlock had used.

He hadn't seen that coming, Sherlock had never before reacted violently.

While he tried to get back to his feet as fast as possible, John was listening to determine where the other man was.

When he stumbled into the hall, he couldn't hear anything, but his own loud panting drowned out subtle noises.

"Sherlock?"

With every step he was painfully aware of his throbbing hip, his shoulder wasn't any better.

The detective couldn't have gone that far, John had just locked the doors.

Then suddenly several things crushed to the ground in the living room and it was clear where his friend was.

"Sherlock?"

This time John was prepared, when he rounded the glass sliding doors he was careful.

"You're at home, at Baker Street. The only one here - besides you - is me," he said loudly.

Maybe he could bring Sherlock out of it this way.

In the dim orange light that came in from the streets he could see Sherlock hunched down in the gap between the padded chair that stood next to the front door and the large pile of magazines that had been piled up there for ages. Several of them had toppled down and where now on the ground, as were some items that must have been on the table before. Sherlock's posture screamed 'ready to attack', with a dangerous undertone of a cornered and severely wounded animal that saw now way out.

This must be more than a simple nightmare, then.

The consultant was obviously not aware he was at home or that John was the one with him.

If Sherlock was reliving something or having a flashback, this could end with serious injuries on both sides. Therefore John decided to be very careful. No matter in how much distress, his friend had never before reacted like this to a nightmare, had never physically lashed out, so this was concerningly different.

Slowly, the doctor moved back to the light switch in the kitchen and switched it on. The living room was suddenly illuminated brightly and he had to blink.

He heard Sherlock react with a whimper and hurried back to the living room.

The other man's eyes were squeezed shut and he was panting harshly but hadn't moved.

"Sherlock? Can I come over there?"

When there was no reaction he stepped a bit closer.

"You are at home and safe, you had a nightmare. Can you open your eyes for me?"

Another step closer, he was now about three metres away and decided that was close enough.

With a grunt, John hunched down, too, to appear less threatening.

"Sherlock, open your eyes, mate! Come on. Look at me, look at the room."

His friend moved and John flinched, ready to intervene or take cover.

But Sherlock only moved up his hands to his face and pressed his palms into his eye sockets. He moaned in agony, obviously the bright light caused pain, but John needed him to be aware that he was at home and not in a dark cellar somewhere.

"Sherlock, open your eyes! You are safe!" John continued the litany.

But the detective seemed to be trapped in his mind, seeing something bad, which made him suddenly started to frantically shake his head.

The doctor then wondered if he could use Sherlock's mind's virtual speaker system to their advantage. Sherlock had said John was through-connected, that he could hear him everywhere when in his mind palace.

But it didn't seem to work with this issue.

Maybe Sherlock was too busy with being terrified or the memory was too intense.

"Sherlock!" John yelled.

That finally brought a reaction.

With a galvanic movement his friend's head moved up and his eyes opened wide. And for a moment John thought Sherlock was with him, but then he realised Sherlock's eyes didn't focus on anything, he just stared into space.

"You are at home, at Baker Street, in the living room."

John did the first thing he could think of, he knocked on the wooden floor with his knuckles; to underline the room was real.

"Come on, snap out of it."

Sherlock frantically shook his head, which John automatically accepted as a reaction to his words, but then he reconsidered.

"You can hear me, come back to Baker Street."

The detective once more squeezed his eyes shut and the panic seemed to get even worse, he started to rock his upper body, they were minute movements, barely visible.

Sherlock mumbled something but it was barely a whisper. John moved a bit further towards the other man.

"Say that again, I couldn't hear you."

But there was no answer, at least not within the next twenty seconds.

John still wondered if Sherlock was even aware of his presence.

"I killed 'im… I… I killed him," Sherlock croaked and slightly turned away a moment later.

John stared at him in shock.

"Oi, what happened? Tell me!" John ordered, making another step towards his friend.

"I killed him… I ended his life. I…"

Sherlock pressed one hand over his mouth, then sat down with a heavy thud and dragged his knees up; curled around them.

"Hey, open your eyes, mate. Come on, I need you here with me," John felt so helpless it made his chest tighten.

It was obvious Sherlock was lost deep in a situation where he had been forced to kill someone.

From his own bad experiences the former soldier knew that taking a life changed people and obviously it had hit Sherlock far worse than the detective had expected.

Sherlock's weapon was his mind, not his hands.

With a growing amount of horror John wondered how often he had been in situations during his _hunt_ where the choice was to kill or be killed.

As a soldier he knew about this kind of situation. But he had been _trained_ for it, although facing it in reality was something else.

It was far worse than everybody expected.

Some soldiers broke from the guilt of it, others managed it somehow, but it left scars on every one who had faced such a dire situation.

Now John knew Sherlock's subconsciousness had just thrown them into a situation that forced them to face a queen bee.

It was clearly visible on the detective's face, which was distorted in horror and agony.

"Go away! You are a fabrication of my imagination," the consulting detective whispered hoarsely.

At first John silently cursed, this meant Sherlock was definitely no longer in his nightmare, he was reliving a gruesome scene, which meant John needed to get him out of there as fast as he could.

But then he realised that at least Sherlock was reacting to him, imagination or not, which relieved him enormously, it made several things much easier.

"You're somewhere in a memory and convinced that bloody memory is reality and that I am the illusion, aren't you?" John needed to make sure, keep the dialogue going.

With a frantic expression on his face, Sherlock leaned his head back and made a desperate sound, as if this idea was making the situation much worse, it probably was.

Carefully, John stepped even closer, Sherlock wouldn't hurt him, now that he was aware he was communicating with _John_ – hallucination or not.

"You _are_ in Baker Street. You're not trapped somewhere, they will not come back. You made it out of there. You _ar_ e safe, you just need come back to me," he kept the litany going.

But Sherlock ignored him and John wondered if asking about the situation Sherlock was experiencing would help or if denying it would be the better choice.

During an earlier flashback, Sherlock had the same problem. He had obviously met the mind-palace-version of John during something horrible, probably a protective mechanism of his mind, to come up with an imaginary doctor/friend.

Being aware of that John had approached Winkelbach some time ago and they had tried to figure out things that might help in situations Sherlock wasn't able to distinguish what was reality and what memory.

Unfortunately they hadn't come up with any good ideas and therefore decided to ask Sherlock about it, let him create a procedure how to get 'out' himself. Invent something that just needed to get triggered and would then work on its own in Sherlock's head.

The thing was: they hadn't had the chance yet to go through with it and now the problem was beating them to it.

Nevertheless John mentally went through the different things that that might also help his friend.

Smell?

A positive smell or taste has helped himself to ground him when he had bad moments after coming back from Afghanistan. But, no, Sherlock could generate smell things inside the palace, therefore not an argument for being in the real world.

Touch?

He could touch things in there, but could he _be_ touched?

The palace had real life physics?

Not really, depended on Sherlock's wishes…

The codeword?

Maybe John should combine all three of them to kind of flood Sherlock with reality.

The doctor understood that seeing him was something that had happened to Sherlock when he was in life threatening situations and had desperately needed company.

This was the first time the mind palace was not a help but a hindrance.

Also, feeling foreign in reality and disconnected from the own self was a problem for many PTSD sufferers. He remembered vividly how he had felt separated from the world around him and how devastating it was.

"Hey, you need to trust me. Come on. Look at me."

Sherlock didn't.

"You had a nightmare, or a flashback, and now you're awake but you can't shake it. The reason the bad things feel more real is because it is the scenario that holds more danger. So you jump into it because it seems to be the more pressing issue, but it is _not_ real, not any longer."

"I felt his last breath on my skin," the detective huffed.

Then he retched but nothing came up.

"What did they do to you? How did you get there? Where are you?"

Maybe it would be good to gather some intel about Sherlock's predicament.

Eyes squeezed shut, Sherlock started to pull at his hair with a strength that made the doctor wince.

"I don't know."

John frowned. He had expected to be told again to shut up.

"This is important, concentrate! Who are they?"

"South American. Drug business."

"Did you sneak in?"

"No… I don't know. For god's sake, why can't I dim the lights?" Sherlock was losing patience.

"Using the switch might help. This is _not_ the mind palace, therefore you need to use the switch. This means _this_ is reality Sherlock! You are not incarcerated, and hallucinating you are home! You really are in Baker Street," John tried to use this little fact he had learned about the palace.

"I woke up in here."

"Where is 'here'? Describe it."

"I... I don't know... Empty room, smells like oil and metal… Ambushed me when I pretended to be a junkie who wanted to buy drugs… Why was I so stupid to think they'd buy my cover story."

"Did they knock you out? Does your head hurt?"

"They gave me something…"

"Shit! What?... What did they give you?"

"I don't know. Drugs… I can't think, must be drugs."

"There are no drugs in your system, you are home, therefore you must have gotten out," John frowned.

"I feel drugged. I… He's dead," Sherlock chocked.

"It was self defence," John was sure of it.

"It's such a fine line… between life and death… I can't…"

"Hey, stop! Snap out of it. Don't get worked up about it right now, we'll take care of that later. You need to calm down."

"John, as nice as it is to have a chat with you, I need to think," Sherlock's voice was trembling.

"What do you need to believe me that you _are_ reliving a memory?"

Sherlock's shallow panicked breaths and his agonised face were quite obvious indications of his stress.

"Maybe I should punch you… or get a bucket full of cold water," John mused aloud so ease the tension a bit.

Sherlock chuckled… or sobbed, the sound was not distinguishable.

"I really miss you and your pragmatic army approach, John," he breathed.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger, but this way too long for one chapter.  
> Hope you enjoyed it nevertheless. 
> 
> Check out my art if you like:  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/10908708  
> drawing for 'It takes John Watson to save your life' by Sparkypip


	94. Wednesday - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some more issues are solved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took ages to write, I am a bit insecure about it.

 

 

Sherlock chuckled… or sobbed, the sound was not distinguishable.

"I really miss you and your pragmatic army approach, John," he breathed.

Sherlock's honesty made John's heart ache.

"Well you won't for long, because I _am_ here and I'm gonna kick your arse out of there soon."

John was considering calling the therapist for help, but before he had the chance to find a phone Sherlock banged his head against the wall, then pressed his thenars into his eyes once more, desperately trying to control his panic.

"Calm down, just calm down... Look at me, concentrate on my breathing. Stay with me."

The doctor watched his friend go through several expressions of agony and panic until finally he just sat there with his eyes squeezed shut, trying to control his breathing with his mouth open and his body rigid, ignoring the other man.

"Sherlock?"

The detective closed his mouth and gulped several times, then he held his breath for a long time and leaned his head back against the wall.

"Talk to me."

Sherlock's face crumpled and now John almost panicked when it looked as if the detective might lose it any moment.

But he didn't.

He just breathed through his teeth and trembled.

It was odd, when Sherlock had episodes like this before he had shaken them off, had tried to get out, had used his own abilities to calm himself, even if it was only to hide his distress, but this was different. Although Sherlock's mind was working his body wasn't following, he was dragged back into panic mode.

"He's dead. I felt him dying... in my hands."

"Sherlock, I'm gonna touch you."

John stood up.

"No," Sherlock screamed suddenly and John froze, "Don't come here,… please don't."

Sherlock scrambled away from him to the right, it was a very desperate sight.

He didn't go far though.

Panting, he leaned against the lower part of the shelf that covered the glass doors.

"You need to get out of there."

"People died protecting me, people died in front of me… but this…" Sherlock's voice faltered.

John felt his gut cramp when he remembered the other man had gone through all this alone. Had tried to handle the thing itself first, and then the remorse and guilt of his first kill, all alone, probably wounded. Had carried this burden alone in the months after, mentally and physically in agony all the time.

"So let's deduce this," John suggested, "Let's find out what is reality and what isn't. Use the same tactic you used when you suffered a panic attack in Baskerville. Use your marvellous mind and prove it works fine."

He waited a moment for the message to reach the other man.

"First clue: touch your eyes, one should feel sore, you were punched by Ian Alexander," John continued while he frantically tried to figure out what else might bring Sherlock out of this.

"I could have imagined that, imagining we were on a case, no prove therefore," Sherlock whispered, then frantically shook his head.

"I don't want to wake up from this dream," Sherlock admitted, sounding utterly exhausted and lost. "I don't want to return to the cellar, to the death and… I can't do this any more. I want to stay here."

"You _are_ here, Sherlock. We are home," John felt close to tears now, this was heartbreaking.

"I can't believe you. I want to, but I can't," Sherlock breathed.

"I know," John sighed.

He needed to anchor Sherlock in reality, the more he looked at his friend, the more odd this panic seemed. The way Sherlock argued reminded him more of Baskerville than of the recent bouts of panic he had experienced.

"Okay, let's go on deducing this, then. Check your surroundings and list what doesn't fit in with the memory of this flat from before _the Fall_. Look around and check what wasn't there when you left. You did that before when you had a panic attack in Baskerville, remember?" John repeated.

Dazed, the detective started to inspect his surroundings.

Meanwhile the doctor headed to the kitchen to fetch the grain pillow. He hurried to put it in the microwave.

"You're here?" Sherlock greeted him when John returned to the detective's line of sight. Sherlock sounded surprised, as well as shaken and vulnerable.

"If this was your mind palace, then relocate us to the space age level," John suggested.

"If you know it's there you must be my imagination."

"Right, point made. But I'm not a hallucination and I'm very sure that I'm real. And if you can't bring us there, then this _is_ reality," he deadpanned.

Sherlock stared at him, he was probably trying to move them.

"Not working? Well, doesn't surprise me. Dimming the light by mind didn't work either, in the palace, it should. Go on, gather intel that proofs this must be real. Try it, try to move around in your mind, try to manipulate your surroundings."

Sherlock's face showed surprise and he stared up at the light, obviously following the suggestion.

The microwave pinged and John went to fetch the warm pillow, he returned to his trembling flatmate. Sherlock was concentrating, but he wasn't really getting better. He should have calmed down as his mind tried to cling to reality.

John tried for another ten minutes to argue with him, but his friend was repeatedly dragged back to the room with the dead man and drifted into panic mode repeatedly, it was not helping really.

The longer it lasted, the surer John became that this was neither a 'normal' panic attack nor a 'normal' episode of dissociation. This was like the panic was running wild and not slowing down.

When this had happened before, Sherlock had collected his wits sooner or later and had allowed John to assist, but this was different. Sherlock seemed more unguarded and open than during any other episode before and he was desperately trying but couldn't get a grip on his distress. Since he had improved much during the past weeks John found it even odder.

Still unused, John had to heat up the grain pillow a second time, while he hurried to fetch Sherlock's phone.

"It's all broken. I…" Sherlock murmured and now John just went over, stopped turning things over in his mind and just acted.

He knelt down in front of his friend. Sherlock had gone with what he started before, maybe he just needed to be bold.

Sherlock froze, pale and exhausted.

John placed the pillow in the back of his neck and without asking reached out and placed his right on Sherlock's hairline, pressing his thumb into his third eye point, this had worked before.

Blinking in surprise, Sherlock looked up at him.

"You remember this touch? Smell the heated pillow, feel its warmth. I am here, this is real. I will not leave you. I am real. Get out of your head and come back to me. I need you here. _Right now_."

The expression on Sherlock's face was so unreal and stunned for long seconds that John was close to panic himself for a moment.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was only a desperate whisper, "I lose the connection. Everything fades away, I am trapped in my… sensations. I'm losing my mind, going mad."

Liquid was building up in Sherlock's eyes and John wondered if the situation was getting out of his hands.

"Nonsense. Don't go there. Stay with me. Just stay with me. This will pass… Describe the sensations."

Sherlock nodded.

"Disconnected."

The doctor made sure he kept the physical contact; Sherlock hadn't moved away, not even tried to. Frantically, he wondered if he should call for help.

"That's probably the dissociation, it must be stirred up because we are working on it, just remember and hang on, it will pass. Please Sherlock, just hang on."

There was a long moment of silence and John started to massage the point on Sherlock's forehead, to ground him with the touch.

"I try to make myself believe that for over a week now. But it's constantly getting worse."

The detective tried a deeper breath, now obviously anxious to control his breathing.

John relaxed a bit, this meant Sherlock had regained some understanding or was aware of things that had happened and was able to understand he had gotten worse over the past days. Which could mean that he was back in reality or at least getting there.

"You're back with me?"

Sherlock nodded minutely and some of the liquid spilled over and started running down his face, the desperation catching up with him, the trembling getting worse.

John moved his other hand to the detective's nape.

He squeezed gently.

"You're okay. You're _not_ going mad. Describe what you sense?"

Usually, Sherlock was a reliable source and a quite accurate one when it came to describe things, the only problem was to translate it into 'normal people speech'.

"This… is different from what you called dissociation before," Sherlock pressed out and confirmed John's suspicion.

"In what way?"

"Before, it came in waves and it was _activated_ somehow, now it's always there. It's not coming in waves as before. The keynote of it has changed."

"What is 'it'?"

"I don't know. It is very hard to keep it under control."

"This has started _days_ ago? Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't know it was relevant or what it was or… How am I supposed to tell you something when I have no words for it?"

"So it feels _that_ different?"

"I feel like a foreigner in my own mind, like I'm not myself. It is like the drug heightened panic in Baskerville, but constantly there and not diminishing. I'm going insane…"

"Shit," John cursed, when the conclusion finally hit him.

"Oh," Sherlock made simultaneously. They both had realised what this meant at the same moment.

"The meds?" The doctor started to check his friend over, his hand moved from the back of his neck to the pulse point and when Sherlock let his head fall forward John's other hand moved from his hairline to his shoulder to keep him from sagging forward.

"Let me get the leaflet."

"No need, this is not in there."

John had of course researched the drug thoroughly before prescribing it, even discussed it with Ella and later asked Winkelbach if he deemed it the right choice, but this was not among the usual side effects and it was nonsense to read the sheet of paper again.

"My brain is slow, I should have realised this before."

The doctor knew Sherlock often had odd reactions to medications, but nevertheless they had no experience with ADs and this was supposed to be mild on the side effect side.

"Have you had any of the 'normal' side effects?"

"The expected: constipation, dizziness, dry mucous membranes and so on," Sherlock mumbled.

"Why didn't you tell me?" John tightened his grip around Sherlock's shoulder to underline the question.

"Because they were supposed to happen in most cases according to the leaflet and there was nothing you could do about it? Why bother?"

Sherlock leaned back and rested the back of his head against the cabinet door.

The movement meant John lost physical contact but was able to see his eyes now.

"Right. But this reaction is atypical. I will research it, but the only way to make sure, is to stop taking them, if it gets better chances are high it was the medication."

"Then later take it again and see if it happens again."

"Er.. you really want to do that?"

"No, this is awful," Sherlock admitted, rubbing his face with his palms, his hands were still shaking.

"Right."

"Can you please spare me the indignity of calling my alienist in my presence."

It was the first time Sherlock called Winkelbach that. John assumed it was the way how his anger about himself manifested. He despised needing the man, insulted himself for needing him and the man for being the embodiment of his need.

"I trust him, and I want you to trust him, too. He is competent and he's really putting an effort into trying to help. He dealt with everything we have thrown at him and all our conditions. If you can't trust him directly then trust me that I put my trust in the right person."

"Trust by proxy?"

"Yeah," John smiled encouragingly.

Sherlock rubbed his face and stared at his wet hands for a moment, then moved the pillow a bit to be more comfortable.

Finally, he was calming down a bit.

"I won't call him if we get a grip on this."

"We will. This is my body doing things to me," Sherlock stammered.

"But knowing where it comes from makes it easier to handle?"

Sherlock nodded, his breathing had slowed down. Obviously by marking this an ailment of his transport Sherlock was starting to manage handling this.

"I want to get up."

"Slow down, let me help."

Sherlock did. It took some effort from both of them until he finally stood on shaky legs, he needed John's support when they shuffled over to the couch.

"You are hurt," Sherlock stated when John winced as he made sure the other man wouldn't fall.

"It's nothing," John assured him.

"I did that, didn't I?"

"Sherlock, you were not really aware and it's just bruises. It's fine."

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock's tone was so sad John felt the odd need to comfort him.

"It's alright. We're gonna be fine."

He placed the grain pillow in Sherlock's hands after he had sat down and their gazes locked for a moment. Sherlock gave him a tired smile and John rested his hand on the other man's shoulder for a moment and nodded.

Message received.

And it was then that John understood something, too. Sherlock hadn't entrusted him with _the Fall_ and it still hurt, but he had entrusted him with this, now, which John was sure took a far greater leap of faith and reliance than going through with the theatrics of the Fall and the hunt.

Now Sherlock was trusting him with something more fragile and intimate - with his mind and his body.

.

They watched telly for the rest of the night and it took real effort for Sherlock not to slip back into full panic mode, they had a couple of moments when it became worse again, though. It was a very long night.

.

It took a week without the meds until Sherlock became obviously calmer and less irritable.

Winkelbach suggested another medication, but Sherlock insisted on discussing discontinuing the ADs since he was in therapy and overall handling it well. Winkelbach shared the latter point of view but disapproved of stopping the meds in general. But the unexpected and strong reaction also made him more careful.

It was the opposite of what should have happened and there weren't that many alternatives Sherlock would consider. He refused certain agents and ingredients in general, which already shortened the list considerably. After the recent events John understood fully why.

On the other hand the doctor couldn't even try to understand how Sherlock had coped by taking illegal drugs in the past, but the detective refused to explain.

In the end they decided to discontinue any medication and risked going without it. But only under the condition that if John and Winkelbach decided he needed to start something again he'd follow their lead.

.

It went well after that, Sherlock improved rapidly and their caseload increased with the weather, as if the criminals were coming out of winter dormancy.

With Mary, the three of them started planning the wedding, which kept Sherlock busy in the off-case time and was more of a challenge than anyone had expected. The detective seemed to be completely clueless about the procedures and rituals. He had been to a high society wedding when he was a child but after that managed to circumvent such events.

Things slowly started to get better and a new kind of normality slipped in, the healing continued and Sherlock was getting better a bit every day.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it.  
> Hope you enjoyed it. 
> 
>  
> 
> Author's notes / Thoughts about this story.
> 
>  
> 
> This story accompanied me for 25 months and I mostly managed weekly updates (until the last three chapters which took ages because I was struggling hard.  
> I posted the first chapter of this story at FF on May 19, 2014 and the last one in mid-April of 2016. Before posting the chapters on AO3 I gave each one an thouroughly overhaul and even rewrote passages I found were filled with bad word choises or didn't fit the situation. It was a lot of work to do this, but I think I improved it a lot.  
> Overall this was a long journey, with a lot of ups and downs. Several chapters were hard to write and wrapping all the stuff into a case that makes sense was also a challenge.  
> It also was a lot of work language-wise, especially since I am not a native speaker and it takes me thrice the time to check grammar and spelling.  
> But I hope you enjoyed reading it nevertheless and ignored the mistakes.
> 
> One thing about the reasons for Sherlock being so slow and so frustrated in my story, is based on how I sensed Sherlock's behaviour in TEH.  
> I was honestly a bit horrified about how he behaved, how slowly he reacted, how sentimental he often was and how 'soft' his behaviour was. It felt OOC, and I was afraid it would go on like this from now on.  
> I was really glad when, at the end of the season, it had mostly vanished again and in hindsight I assume it was of course all intentional, as usual.  
> I might add that I don't watch interviews or read about actor's lives or background or whatever, I'm just very grateful for the gifts they give us by doing what they do, giving life to characters.  
> So, I needed to figure out theories / reasons why Sherlock might behave like this, this story was partly my try/version to do that.  
> Another reason why I wrote this was me starting another bout of PTSD therapy, which in the end turned out to be very disappointing.  
> Though my therapist was a decent person, he was quite unmotivated and equipped with a bad memory.  
> So writing this turned once more into my own coping strategy, well, it was meant to.
> 
> I am very sorry this last chapter took so long. After the chapter before this I planned to just give the story an epilogue and be done with it, but then I had a very bad time for three weeks and it turned out to be caused by the meds I had just started to take (because I was worse after the therapy than before due to the unpacked but not handled issues).  
> The unexpected reactions were giving me a hard time, which peaked in hour-long panic attacks.  
> Sherlock was a bit out of character here because the stuff made me out of character, it messed up my mind in quite a frightening way.  
> I stopped taking them in the end (with the support of my doctor) and I decided to put these experiences in here, too.  
> Usually I am ashamed and never talk about such things, that's probably why they find their way into my stories. I am not writing all this because I am trying to harvest pity, I am quite allergic to pity that is. I am telling this because I think it needs to be explained to be understood.
> 
> I hope that wasn't too much H/C in the end. I was insecure if it was a good idea to add this after the events with Mycroft, but finally just did it this way. I am still a bit nervous about it, it's quite close to home.
> 
> Special thanks to Petergirl10 who is doing a translation into Russian, I feel a bit bad that this turned out to be such a long story and am very grateful for her efforts! www.fanfiction.net/u/5923591/petergirl10
> 
> This story was an important companion during two eventful and rough years and I'm very grateful for everybody who stayed with me, subscribed, bookmarked, gave kudos and especially to those who took their time to gift me with feedback and reviews. 
> 
> You guys are great and you helped me a lot.  
> Thank you so much for your support, it means a lot to me, more than I can express.


	95. Notice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follow up

Hey,

I decided to post the deleted scenes from this story.

Basically it's a whump dump, a folder where I put all those files I decided didn't really fit in with the story.

There were requests that I post those, and so, here they are.

They are in a new story, called 'Downtime' and they won't necessarily have an end/full story line, or make much sense on their own.

It's just a collection of deleted scenes and H/C, but I thought you might enjoy.

 

Thank you :)

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.  
> I'm not a native speaker and I hope it is possible to ignore my grammar mistakes.  
> I'd love to get some feedback.
> 
> .............................................................
> 
> I posted my first pieces of Fanart, if anyone is interested.  
> They are with the rest of my stories here on AO3  
> or on deviantart:  
> http://theceruleanfeline.deviantart.com/
> 
> There is not much there jet, just a few pieces of fanart for 'It takes John Watson to save your life' by Sparkypip.
> 
> ............................
> 
> There is a bunch of deleted H/C scenes from this fic / Sherlock's time away.  
> I will probably publish in a seperate story later, so if you're interested, come back later.


End file.
